Pencils Tell A Little Too Much
by Iminaloine
Summary: Art is stupid. But Butch just keeps getting forced into it, and Buttercup isn't too keen on being a muse. Not supposed to be too long or too mushy (actually it's not mushy at all), just a healthy dose of Greens. Butch-centric. Rating changed to T for generic teenage swearing.
1. Art's Stupid

The paintbrush hangs limp in his hand, the canvas as blank as it had been when he walked into the class. As the time ticks slowly away, his mind wanders to more appealing thoughts, like going to the tree he's reserved for taking a smoke, or Blossom's legs, or anything that takes his mind off the fact that he's sitting in art class.

Art class that he didn't want to take.

"Problem, Butch?" asks Mrs. Carlyle once she catches sight of his canvas. "Don't you have inspiration?"

"I've got plenty of that," he murmurs, his thoughts still on the mile-long legs of the redhead. "I'm just not an artist kinda guy."

"Don't be silly. Everyone's got a bit of art in them, they just have to find it!"

Well, mine's clearly hibernating, he thinks. He doesn't even want to be here; Miss Keane asked him to give the class a shot after she stumbled upon a sketch that had fallen out of his backpack in one of the hallways. He cursed his broken zipper to hell once he got home and trashed the backpack, opting to take one of Boomer's instead. But the damage was done, and now he's here, powering through a class about as interesting as watching paint dry (pun intended) and he sure as hell knows that he's had enough of art for the rest of the day. Or preferrably, his entire life.

"Maybe you need a muse?" Mrs. Carlyle offers, and another image of Blossom pops into his head. A grin creeps onto his face as he pictures more inviting, and naked, possibilities.

"Nah, that's sorted," he says, and the blonde-haired woman nods at his satisfied grin.

"Well, even if you do, you're not putting any ideas down." She slips into thought for a few moments, and then she looks up suddenly, her lips stretched into a smile. "Okay, I'll let you leave the class now, since you don't seem to flow in here."

He's out of his chair in seconds and the doorway has never looked more appealing to him in his life.

"But I'm giving you a little assignment!"

"_Damn_," He curses very quietly. All relief leaves his body, and he wants to melt into a miserable puddle on the ground and have this lady carry him out herself. As if forcing him to attend a class he didn't even like because of something he had drawn when he was bored wasn't enough, he was going to leave with an ever-present reminder that he's going to have to _come back_ tomorrow. He debates ditching; it isn't like Miss Keane can do more than give him detention. He can't do anything now, though. Not when the art teacher places a large sketchpad in his hands with a smile.

"I want at least one art piece by tomorrow, alright?" she says. "It doesn't need to be anything spectacular. Whatever you can come up with, as long as it classifies as visual art."

"Uh, sure," he says, and then he stuffs it into the backpack slung over his shoulder, trying to decide whether he should shred it at home and make up a story, or shred it at school and tell Miss Keane he shredded it. It was his fault for bringing the sketch to school; he thought it looked cool, even if it was just a sketch. He had been bored at home and the city had been there, sitting outside his window, under the evening sky, and he felt like he was supposed to do something with it, so he drew it, and it was almost like he was watching someone else draw; he just saw the pencil move and his memory hazed out and when he came to, there it was, just sitting in front of him like it had been there the entire time.

He saunters out of the class and heads straight for the field. The tree isn't anything spectacular, which aids him in his bid to be inconspicuous. He climbs up and lights a cig, each long drag seeping into his bones until he's spaced out enough to forget what art even is, all he knows is that it's stupid and gets him unnecessary homework and he isn't touching that sketchbook.

It's only after a couple of hours, when he's run out of cigarettes and the entire school is empty, that he sees her run onto one of the courts, clad in a loose shirt and shorts. He snorts because she looks like a hesitant rookie, and then he remembers that she always looks like a dork, and _then_ he remembers that he doesn't care. She has a basketball tucked under her arm and her expression is hard. He knows she's in a mood and he debates riling her up even more, but he decides against it once she starts dribbling the ball.

She moves around the court as if there are other people there. Once she's tired of jerking around she shoots; the ball bounces off the basket, and she just...stops. Butch sits up and leans forward, even though he can see just fine because he can see her, how her entire body just droops like she can't withstand the force of gravity, and her hair's hiding her face and the ball is at her feet and she's just not moving.

Just when he starts getting confused and thinks of throwing a rock at her head or something to jerk her back to life, she does it by herself; she straightens all of a sudden and snatches the ball off of the ground, glaring at it like it kills baby pandas for a living, and then she hurls it at the basket with such ferocity that the ball explodes upon contact, the basket breaks in two and the metal pole bends backwards. He raises an eyebrow.

And then, like a lot of other times, she does something that he could not even begin to expect, no matter how desensitised he has become to all of her antics, and _her_ in general.

She sinks to the floor and starts freaking crying.

He sits up, taken aback. He's been in awkward situations, but seeing Buttercup Utonium cry is on a whole other level of 'hell-will-be-an-ice-rink-first' type of situations. He watches in astonishment as she folds her legs against her chest and buries her head on her knees.

This is weird. He can't handle it. But for some reason, he can't bring himself to look away, and there's this familiar, intense feeling in his body, like he needs to do something. He can't get rid of it, so he rummages through his backpack for a lone cigarette he might stumble upon. Some nicotine will do the trick.

Instead, his hand lands on the cover of the sketchbook.

That freaking sketchbook.

He wants to set it aflame and throw the fireball at Buttercup's head but his hand has a life of its own all of a sudden. He pulls it out and opens the first page. Blank, as underwhelmingly usual. But then the feeling's back, and his hands are defiant again, and they're reaching for a pencil and an eraser nub he's forgotten about. His eyes keep darting to Buttercup's body and he doesn't know why.

Until the once-blank paper sits in front of him, the vividly realistic drawing glaring at him harder than he's glaring at it.

It's her.

Of course it's her. The proof is right there in front of him, and it's like a sucker-punch to the gut. But the weird feeling's gone and now he's left with a bitter taste in his mouth because of all the people in the entire world, he drew her.

Buttercup freaking Utonium.

He knows her last name. Why does he?

He doesn't even know anymore.

So he does the most plausible thing. He climbs out of the tree, thankful that Butterbutt's too busy with her sob-fest to notice him, and that's saying a lot; she's like a target when it comes to eavesdroppers.

But he wasn't eavesdropping. He wasn't big on watching any girl cry, let alone that one. It's not his fault he saw her. It's hers, coming to cry in the middle of the basketball court where anyone who has eyes can see her. He doesn't think about how it's almost seven o' clock, and the entire school's empty. He focuses on the fact that she made him involuntarily actually do his homework, which makes about negative-zero sense, but he doesn't care. It's not his fault he saw her cry. He doesn't even care that she cried. They share a beautiful mutual hate for each other, and he's perfectly happy that way.

"I don't give a shit," he says out loud once he lands in front of his (and his brothers') place. He says it to reassure himself, but he doesn't know why he needs to.

"Hey," Boomer greets from his spot on the couch as he enters. He grunts in response, not stopping the beeline he's making for his room. It's only when his backpack flies out of his grip with a flash of blue that he slows and turns around to glare at the blond who is once-again nestled comfortably on the couch.

"I'm not in the mood for your bullshit, Boomer," he deadpans, and his brother shrugs.

"Is anyone _ever_ in the mood for my bullshit?" he asks, and then frowns as he holds up the bag and recognition sets in. "Why do you have my backpack?"

"Because you don't use it, and mine bit the dust," he responds, and then walks over to the couch. He reaches for the backpack, but then blue streaks past him again and Boomer's bedroom door clicks shut. He stands frozen for a moment, his mind still trying to register what just happened. When it does, he sprints for Boomer's bedroom and kicks the door to splinters, but the room is empty and the window is open, the curtain flapping around in the breeze. With an aggravated bellow he yanks the curtain right off of its rung and tears after his runaway brother. Luckily, he isn't far, and Butch spots him on the other side of the road four blocks away. Using the roof of a house as a push-off point, he takes off, shooting towards his brother's position at breakneck speeds.

He collides with Boomer so violently that they leave a crater big enough to destroy the entire road and a few surrounding houses.

"OW! What the HELL, you asshole?!" Boomer shrieks as Butch pulls him into a headlock powerful enough to break his collarbone. He cries out at the crack, and then goes limp in surrender. "Just take it! Jeez!"

He snatches the bag away and slings it over his shoulder, ignoring the terrified stares of the onlookers surrounding the scuffle. He cracks his neck joints and takes off for the house again, leaving the wreakage behind. The girls'll probably clean it up anyway.

Once he's in the safety of his room he pulls out the sketchbook and stares in horrified confusion at the now-empty pages. It takes him a while to see the tiny indication of a torn page at the beginning of the book, and then his window's broken and he's looking for Boomer again. Unfortunately, the little shit took the liberty of finding a hiding place this time. So Butch lands and starts walking, activates his x-ray vision and scans the city as far as his eyes can see, but there's no sign of the blond.

Shit, he thinks. Knowing Boomer, the drawing will either be used against him as blackmail material or end up torn to shreds at the bottom of a trashcan somewhere.

For his sake, he hopes it's the latter.

He passes the crater he and Boomer made in the road. At the sight of blond hair he swivels to the side, fists clenched.

But then he sees the two pigtails. He relaxes and rolls his eyes; they really worked fast, for them to be there now. His eyes instinctively search for Blossom, and he finds her talking to a spooked citizen a ways away from the crater. He sees her tense and turn around; she probably felt his x-ray vision boring into her back. Once she catches sight of him, her mouth turns down in a frown, and she begins to march over. Butch groans; hot or not, he is not in the mood for her scolding right now. Still, he stays put, his lips stretching into a lopsided grin.

"You think this is funny?" she hisses at him.

"Yeah," he says flatly.

"You know I could kick your ass straight into a jail cell, right?"

"Eh. Wouldn't be the first time," he says with a shrug. "Look, I wanna stick around, but I also don't." And he sticks his hands in his pockets and saunters past her, throughly enjoying the fact that she's watching him go.

* * *

He searches until dark. Then he finally gives up and decides to head back home, partly because he's exhausted and partly because he knows that he's worrying over the stupid drawing far too much. It's just a sketch.

A sketch of Buttercup Utonium in the most inconvenient situation ever, for her at least. A sketch of a situation that he shouldn't have been around to see.

"Fuck," he hisses. He can't stop thinking about it, and he doesn't know why, and it's pissing him off.

Once he's inside, he heads straight for his room, grabs the sketchbook and throws it into the back of his closet. He hears the sound of paper tearing, and only then does he calm down enough to be able to think about anything other than the drawing.

So he sits down by his window and stares out at the city, watching how its lights paint the night sky a slightly brighter blue. How it just tauntingly _sits_ there, daring him to do something.

He ignores the urges, clenches his fists, and taunts it right back.


	2. Way Too Troublesome

He snaps awake, unsure of where he is for a second. Then he remembers the art class, the sketchbook. The drawing.

He scoffs and stands up. His back aches from falling asleep in such an awkward position, so he stretches until his joints pop, and then flops back onto the bed. The sun has risen and he's probably already late, but when has he ever cared about school?

The reverie he slips into doesn't last very long. Brick opens the door just as his eyes close. Butch doesn't even have to look at his brother to feel the frosty glare directed at him.

"We're going," is all he says. Butch shrugs and flips over, to which the redhead responds with, "I'm not gonna say it again."

He waits for a few seconds, but before Brick can leave, he speaks. "I know you don't give a shit about it. High school." He turns to look at him. "Why do you power through it, then?"

The redhead doesn't answer, instead giving his brother a glare that puts forth his order perfectly, yet still passes Butch's point across. Brick hates high school. Probably as much as Butch finds it amusing.

Still, he conforms.

Once the door closes, he sighs, and after a few minutes of debating with himself, he gets up.

Might as well.

* * *

He notices that something's off the moment he sets foot on the school grounds. There are eyes on him—which isn't surprising. He basks in it, even. But today the expressions on their faces are different. Not the usual mix of fear and awe that he's gotten used to.

The stares are scrutinizing, like they're trying to figure him out.

He wants to dismiss it as him just feeling crappy because of the drawing, or the impending art class, but he can't.

It doesn't take him long to figure it out—the crowd gathered around the noticeboard is big enough to see from across the building. As he approaches, he notices their stares again. Even the silence has a different atmosphere to it, the whispers sounding odd and unfamiliar.

He pushes past bodies even though he knows he can see it from here. He knows, but he doesn't want to look up until there's nothing else standing between him and it. He's so adamant to follow this decision that he almost headbutts the board, and even then he's reluctant. But he has to know. He hates the unfamiliarity, so he needs to eradicate it.

His gaze slowly shifts upward, and as soon as he registers the paper he knows.

The incredulous oath tumbles from his lips at the exact same time Buttercup's confused one echoes from behind the crowd.

"What the fuck?"

He reaches out for the paper, but her bandaged fingers get to it first. He grits his teeth as she stares at the drawing, her expression shifting from confusion, to realization.

To anger.

"What the fuck." Her eyes are hard now. Her clenched fist crumples the paper, and he grits his teeth.

Boomer, he thinks. It's way too early for this shit.

He shakes his head; he can't even bring himself to grin at this point. "So you found out my dirty little secret," he says flatly. "I'm a cartoonist. 'Cause you obviously can't look _that_ hot in real—"

He cuts off at the blinding pain in his nose that knocks him off his feet and sends him flying backward. He finds himself sprawled out in the grass outside the building, and he sighs, muttering a small "Here we go."

He can practically taste her fury from where he is.

"You. Piece. Of shit." She snarls. "You fucking _scumbag._"

"If you're just gonna go on, I'll just leave—" He cuts off with a choke as she yanks him up by the collar. His eyes narrow. "Seriously, I can go."

Her enraged expression doesn't waver, and he sighs once again. This is the first time he's ever been conflicted about riling her up even more. Her anger is extremely gratifying, but he kinda gets it. Why she's angry.

He never thought he'd ever reach such a conclusion.

She punches him again. Backs it up with a kick to his chest. He takes it in good stride, but the usual humour he derives from their scuffles is absent.

"You saw the whole thing, didn't you?" she growls down at him. He nods.

"Yup. But in my defense, you were really loud—_ow_," he winces unconvincingly after she kicks him once more. He wants to feel the laughter erupt from his chest as her face contorts with anger.

But it still isn't there.

He's irritated now. He just wants this to be over so he can go kill Boomer, but it's dragging on for far longer than he thought it would, and he obviously isn't enjoying any part of it. So he decides to go with his other way of coping with Buttercup's Psycho phase: fleeing the scene.

He takes off so fast that he's not really sure where he's going for a couple of seconds. He recovers quickly though, and he can already feel Buttercup's burning glare boring into his back as she gives chase. He takes the liberty of tuning out the endless string of insults being hurled his way because, honestly, he can think of far worse ones. She's overreacting, anyway; he can't see any reason why she's getting so worked up over a freaking drawing. It sounds like way too much of a _girl_ thing to do, and Buttercup doesn't really count as _female_, at least not in his eyes.

"You're way more volatile today, y'know that?" He calls out. "But I know you can't help it _now_. I can feel you PMSing from here."

The furious roar she lets out seems to throw her forward, because she slams violently into him and they go down fast, blowing a gigantic hole into the side of an apartment complex with their landing and burrowing right down to the ground floor. He's too winded to fully recover before she descends on him, attacks coming from every possible direction. Her knee connects with his groin and he wheezes, and then there's adrenaline surging through his body and he kicks her in the stomach. She backpedals, and he sends her flying backward with a punch to the jaw.

There it is. That feeling he always gets when this happens. The burning desire to break, to _destroy_, that only manifests when he fights her. It's like a drug, and he's finally gotten his fix. Sure, he still can't derive any sort of thrill from getting her worked up, but he can fight back, and that's enough exhilaration for him.

She launches for him again, but he's ready this time. He grabs her arm and twists it behind her until she grunts. She knees him in the stomach, and he crumples, but grabs her arm again and pulls her into a tight headlock.

Her frenzied thrashing is akin to that of a rabid dog. Butch laughs at the fact that she can't break his hold.

"Seriously? A headlock, and you can't break free?" he snorts. "Guess all that snivelling made you weak, crybaby."

He knows he's struck a nerve. Hell, he struck a nerve the moment she saw the sketch, but now he's done it.

Now she's mad as hell.

Her head does this weird jerking thing, and he's confused for a second—until there's a snap and his arm burns with pain. He recoils and propels himself back into the air.

He spirals out of control, too preoccupied with the pain in his arm, and he loses altitude once again. The pain is already ebbing away, though, so as soon as he hits the ground, he shoots back up again.

"I'm gonna fucking _break_ you, Butch!" She screams after him. She's gaining fast. Her voice is crazed, but there's something else he can hear, just an inkling, and once again there's that feeling he hates, the absence of the humour he's supposed to derive from this.

He feels like the bad guy; a fact that doesn't faze him per se, but in this situation—which was caused by an earlier, more problematic situation that he now wishes he hadn't been around to witness—it's gnawing at him, distracting him.

It feels way too much like guilt.

Buttercup crashes into him again, the force powerful enough for his organs to shudder inside his body, but this time he manages to stay airborne. His hands reach for her hair, yank on it. She hisses and lashes out with her limbs.

They're literally darting all over the place now, and Butch is torn between avoiding her hits, landing his own, and trying to figure out which way is up or down. Their movements blur until Butch isn't sure if he's hitting her or himself.

And then her head smashes against his, hard. His brain sort of vibrates against his skull, and his body goes limp and heavy as he tries to reboot.

Fuck, he hisses mentally as he begins to fall. All he can see is Buttercup's contorted expression—which only adds to the discomfort he feels as gravity pushes against his body. Somewhere along the descent he faces downward to not have to look at her face, instead preferring to watch the ground as it rushes to meet him.

Not even his epic faceplant into the gravel of the street deters Buttercup. Before he can even taste the ground she flips him over, which he's thankful for—until she starts punching him.

"Looks like this is—hurting you more—than it is—me," he splutters between each hit. He forces a lopsided grin onto his lips. "You can stop, y'know."

"Shut the hell up!" she bellows, and for the first time ever, he's actually stunned into silence. "_Shut up!_"

Her fist connects with his jaw again and again, blowing an ever-widening crater into the ground. Eventually she's striking him faster than the Chemical-X can fix, but she doesn't stop. Now his head is pounding like a bass drum and his nose is definitely broken and his vison is blurry, but she _doesn't stop._

"Okay—stop—" he cuts off with a hiss of pain as she punches his nose again. "Fu—_STOP_!"

He's starting to feel it now. The pain that comes with receiving way too many hits. She knows it too: he can see it in her eyes. But she looks pretty screwloose now, and it's just making him feel worse.

Not pain-worse. Guilt-worse.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!? Huh!?" she screams. "Do you—do you get off on it or something? Are you so _fucking_ insane that you like that kind of stuff?" Another punch. "You just—you just sat and _watched_ that shit like a movie!"

"I didn't want to see you fucking cry, okay!?" he roars, and then it's her turn to fall silent. He uses her lack of attack to spit blood, take a deep breath, and continue. "I was just there, alright? Jesus..."

She stares at him for a few seconds. And then, "So then you just decided that that was the perfect time to hone your art skills, huh?"

"That was..." he sighs. "That was a mistake. I didn't even have any control over it."

She frowns. "You expect me to believe that?"

"...Pretty much, yeah."

"Tch." She raises a fist again, but he's recovered enough to be able to grab her hand mid-punch.

"Can you just calm the hell down and listen?" He catches her glare, levels it with his own. "When I draw, it's...it's like I'm just watching the pencil move. I didn't even realize I was drawing you yesterday."

She narrows her eyes at him, and he lifts up his free hand in surrender.

"I know it sounds like bullshit, alright?" he says. "But I'm serious. I didn't even _like_ to draw until two days ago, and ever since then it's just been getting me into terrible situations." He pauses. "Like this one, for example." He stares pointedly at her face, knowing that his probably looks like a plate of ketchup.

She sneers at him, and he thinks she's gonna go crazy again, but she simply gets up and dusts herself off.

"So...why were you crying?" he asks her.

She sends him a withering glare. "It's none of your goddamn business."

He raises his hands again. "My bad." And then, with a smirk playing on his lips, he adds, "But you're sure it wasn't just you PMSing?"

"Fuck you, Butch."

"Heh, trust me, you can."

She gives an incredulous scoff and takes off. He watches her fly until all he can see is the faint green trail she leaves in her wake.

He decides not to move until his wounds close. He closes his eyes, almost feeling the Chemical-X heal the cuts on his face. Still, when he's all healed up, he doesn't move. He's not sure why, until anger slowly wells up inside him, increasing until he starts to shake.

He hates art. Hates. It. In the space of two days he's gone through more inconveniences than he cares to endure.

With an aggravated hiss, he gets to his feet and starts walking. He can't risk flying in case somebody sees him, which would ultimately lead to either Blossom or Brick forcing him to clean up the damage he and Buttercup caused.

He spits blood onto the road. Hisses again.

He's definitely ditching that art class. It's brought him enough trouble as is.


	3. And Messes With My Head

Hi, Imin here. Just a note: I made Miss Keane the principal, since it's easier than making an OC. Kinda like in SBJ's More Than Human.

Also this was hectic to write, so if you get confused I don't blame you, heh.

* * *

"We agreed on a week."

Miss Keane's desk is littered with papers, and she's taking her time to stack them into neat little piles on one side of the table. If she's listening to Butch, she isn't showing it, which is only making him more furious. His feet tap against the floor furiously: he's never been big on sitting still, especially when he's in a bad mood.

"And I've changed my mind, even though I never had a say to begin with. So I'll say this bluntly: I. Don't Give. _Two shits_—"

"No swearing."

"—about art class," he finishes, ignoring the interruption.

He bristles at her lack of response, wants to burn all those papers into dust. But he restrains himself because he wants her to accept that he would like art class to go not-literally fuck itself. The chances of gaining her approval in the middle of a smoking office would most probably be slim to none.

So he forces himself to sit back in his chair and wait. After a long while of silence, she finally looks up at him.

"Why exactly don't you want to continue the class?"

"I hate art, for one," he says. "It's stupid and way too troublesome, so I don't see the point."

"You've only attended the class for a day, Butch. Miss Carlyle tells me that the little you've done holds a lot of potential."

"A drawing of a girl crying counts as potential?" He snorts. "Now I really wanna leave."

"I'm not talking about that one." All of a sudden the sketch he made materializes on the table, and he stares at it with a unamused frown and the strong need to punch something, because in spite of various issues like the scuffle with Buttercup in the morning and the penetrating stares from the other kids that _still_ haven't let up and the fact that art sucks ass, he still kindasortamaybe likes it.

He should've never made the goddamn thing.

"See?" He looks up at the sound of Miss Keane's voice, and scowls at the smile playing on her lips. "Even the way you look at it proves that it's a passion of yours."

"It's not a fucking passion," he growls.

"Watch your language," she says, not looking bothered in the least.

"I don't want to draw. I don't want to do anything artistic whatsoever," he says. He's getting annoyed again. "It sucks. I hate it. So I want to leave."

She hums in thought. Her gaze shifts to her hands, placed on the desk in front of her. She twiddles her thumbs, eyebrows furrowing as she thinks. Butch counts one minute.

Two.

Five.

At this point he's so aggravated that there is now a pair of dents in the floor, his feet are tapping so hard. He gets that feeling of sitting too still for too long: he feels like he physically has to hold himself back or he'll either spontaneously combust or turn into a puddle of liquid.

Then, finally, she looks up and says, "No."

His mouth drops open. "What?"

"Let's discuss the proverbial elephant in the room," she says, disregarding the evident disbelief on his face at her refusal. When he doesn't respond for a few seconds, she tilts her head to the side. "Do you have an idea?"

"No," he deadpans, his expression hard now. She chuckles at the obvious echo in his words.

"Performance, Butch." She leans back in her chair and produces a file from nowhere. He's taken aback for a second, wondering if he's hallucinating or Miss Keane's suddenly gotten the gift of pocket space. She opens the file, her eyes skimming down the page swiftly, and then she looks back up at him, and there's that amused smile on her lips again. "Your performance in a lot of your classes is mediocre, at best. Even your female counterpart is better than you are—"

"Don't call her my _counterpart. _We have nothing in common," he hisses, and then glowers at the smile that suddenly spreads across Miss Keane's face.

"What I'm getting at is," she continues. "The only class you seem to have visible potential in is Art. To Miss Carlyle, you haven't given any indication that you have no interest in or aren't good at the class." She looks down at the sketch again, and suddenly Butch isn't so conflicted about setting her table on fire. "So I don't see any reason to remove you from Art before the week ends. After today, that's just three more classes."

He immediately starts devising a simple plan to ditch class. It's right after his lunch period, so he could duck out of the school grounds and not come back for an hour or two...

"And if you try ditching, I'll extend the period to a month," she adds, and once again, his mouth drops open. "_And_ have Buttercup escort you."

"_...You can't be serious._"

She shrugs, slipping his file back into her pocket space and smiling at his incredulous expression.

When a minute passes and he's made no attempt to move, she says, "If you're done, I'd like to order this chaos on my own, please." She gestures to the half-ordered papers on her desk. "You can take your drawing with you, if you want."

The dumbfounded expression on his face doesn't disappear, but he manages to pick both himself and the sketch up. He looks at Miss Keane again, but now she's completely focused on separating a particularly chaotic mess of paper into colour-coded piles. He shakes his head as he reaches the door.

"Fuck my life," he mutters.

"I heard that. And close your mouth, you'll swallow a fly."

* * *

Miss Carlyle avoids him for most of the class. It's probably attributed to the fact that he greeted her with a withering glare as he entered and then proceeded to either draw literal piles of shit on his canvas or scowl at said canvas for a few minutes at a time. Somewhere along the line she must have realized that he had a problem with her and hence decided to keep her distance. But even so, Butch is in a horrible mood, and not just because of art.

Okay, it's totally because of art.

On his way to the class he glared daggers at the sketch he had made and, in an effort to try and appease himself, burned it to ashes right then and there. But then a lance of regret shot through his chest, and he suddenly got confused, like he had walked into the wrong place or something.

He has no idea why he regrets destroying the thing. So he's mad that he destroyed it and he's mad that he's mad and it doesn't even make sense anymore, so he draws another dung heap on his canvas, making sure to emphasize on the stink lines.

Miss Carlyle passes by him for the ninth time in the past half-hour, and he glowers at her. Suddenly she walks forward, and he notices her frown.

"You're being extremely childish," she tells him, and he snorts.

"Wasn't expected to grow past five, so you can't blame me."

She shakes her head, casts a disappointed look at his canvas, and turns away. "I really thought you were breaking through, Butch."

The universe has fucked with him one time too many, and now he's gonna make sure he'll have no reason to ever come back to this class.

"I told you," he says with a self-satisfied smirk. "I'm just not an artist kinda guy."

But as she walks away, the weird, confused feeling appears again.

* * *

He goes to the tree. He's got a new pack of smokes so he decides to get comfortable and do nothing for a long while.

He sits in silence for the first hour, watching as the students bleed out of the exit and off the school grounds. It gives him a superior feeling; from here they all look like ants, easily squashed under his foot. Granted, he could kill all of them in one fell swoop without breaking a sweat, but still. He relishes the omniscience he feels in this moment.

Then the time passes, and the school gradually becomes silent and empty. He slides down into a half-sit, half-sprawl in the tree's branches, closing his eyes.

He sneers as Miss Keane's amused face pops up in his mind. Then he scoffs at the mental image of Miss Carlyle's unimpressed frown.

_I really thought you were breaking through._

Then he sees the sketch of the city. He remembers watching it disintegrate in his grasp, remembers the satisfaction he got from the destruction. Fuck them, he had thought at the time.

Of course, that was before the shitty feeling hit.

He wants to chuckle. To laugh at the fact that they think he's so capable. The thought in itself is kinda twisted, but he's already too used to his dark humour to care about it.

Only now, the humour part is absent. It's just dark, and in more ways than Butch would like to acknowledge.

A heavy, dejected sigh has his eyes flying open. He sits up, eyes darting every which way, trying to catch whoever's eavesdropping.

It takes him a really long time to realize that the sigh came from him. But before he can try to register it, he notices Buttercup walk onto the basketball court.

He watches her hair bob as she walks with her confident steps.

So unlike his mind right now.

Then she turns her head, catches his eye. Her blank expression instantly turns into one of annoyance.

"What the hell are you—?"

"Nope," Butch grunts, and then he books it home, but he's still caught up in her walk, at the sureness of her steps.

She's centred, rooted to the surface of the earth, and it's making him spin even more out of control.

* * *

He reaches home. He stumbles forward, his brain too cluttered to function properly.

He doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with him, all he knows is he's still thinking about her steps, and now he's getting frustrated because he doesn't know why he's thinking about them, about _her_, but he's still aware that his own gait is clumsy and confused, the complete opposite of hers.

It's only when he collapses onto his bed that he remembers that he's not supposed to care. That he's supposed to snort at something, _anything_ related to her, and for the umpteenth time in two days, he's completely befuddled as to why he feels this way. In the absence of his usual cynical mirth, there's just a weird feeling. He's not sad, or angry, or any other unpleasant emotion—it goes deeper than those.

He just feels...negative. Like something's wrong with him, and he has the answer in his hands but he just can't get a firm hold.

His gaze shifts to his backpack. It's half-open, and he can see the new sketchbook Miss Carlyle gave him.

Just in case you decide to give it a shot, she told him.

He reaches for it. Pulls it out. Stares at the blank page, and that negative feeling ebbs away just a little bit.

He actually snorts at the irony. He's doing what he thought he wanted, neglecting art class so he can be kicked out, and yet he feels this way when he thinks about his plan. Art really is screwing him over, giving him all these weird contemplative thoughts and making him feel inexplicably bad for reasons he can't even guess at.

He didn't want to burn the stupid drawing. He didn't want to see Buttercup cry. He didn't want to join the stupid art class. But he's been blaming it on art, completely overlooking the fact that he's the one who started it all the other day, when he looked at the city. It's his fault for giving them something to hold over his head.

He realizes that now.

So he reaches for a pencil, and that random eraser nub that's always there when he needs it, and he draws. And this time he's in control of it, and he's watching the lines and shapes flow from the lead, and it gives him a sense of calm.

The clutter in his head fades, the restlessness ebbs away into nothing, and he realizes just why he made that sketch in the first place.

He's the odd one of the three. The psychopath who freaks people out with how off-the-shits crazy he is. But he only feels like he's the complete opposite when he draws, so there's gotta be some kind of hidden benefit in there somewhere.

His senses haze out, and now he's drawn on five pages but he's still going. He's drawing everything that pops into his mind: his tree, a school corridor, Boomer. A pair of legs that he hopes no one will notice belong to Blossom. A page of random doodles. He goes on and on, occasionally losing track of what he's doing before snapping back to reality again.

His thoughts are clear now, or at least, clear enough that he can assess whatever the hell is happening to him.

Once again, he feels dull anger at the realization that the universe is messing with his head. Now he's doing the complete opposite of what he would have done yesterday if he really wanted to: destroy anything of his that is even remotely related to this wretched subject, flip Miss Carlyle, Miss Keane and that _she-he_—whom the principal had the audacity to call his _counterpart_—the bird, etc., etc.

There's too much unfamiliarity in art. That's probably why he doesn't care for it. The comfort in familiar things is basically all he wants to feel. It's all he needs. Familiarity.

But _this_, he thinks as he watches his pencil dart frantically across the page, this is a new kind of feeling. One that makes him uncomfortable, but also soothes the negative feeling in his chest.

He isn't really surprised when he looks at the newly-finished drawing. He wants to be. Heck, he feels like he's _supposed_ to be, but he isn't.

It's her.

Buttercup freaking Utonium stares at him with a blank expression that's just about to turn furious. Her shoulders are square, and even though the drawing stops at her waist, he knows she walking. Confidently. Calmly.

His lips quirk into a small smirk as he wonders how she can look so laid-back despite being a feral psycho.

This is the last page of the sketchbook, and he feels like he's finally vommed all the creativity he can muster, so he sits back. Stares out of his window. The sky's dark: he must've been drawing for an hour straight.

There's a satisfying blue glow settled over Townsville. He likes it. It goes well with the quiet in his head, the near-weightlessness of his body. He literally couldn't feel more zoned out at this point.

He considers drawing a newer version of his first sketch, but decides otherwise. He's over it, anyway.

The light feeling in his bones doesn't leave him, and he falls asleep in a good mood for the first time in a while.


	4. But I Don't Dislike It

A/N: I almost pulled my hair out trying to finish this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it. Also, reviews are well appreciated. I didn't ask before cuz I'm a bad writer who doesn't ask for feedback even though I really want it TT

So yeah, please tell me what you think! If you like it, then great! If you hate it, that's cool too :'-)

Also it's 1:05 a.m and I just finished writing this so please send help.

* * *

Miss Carlyle's gaze shifts from Butch, to the sketchbook in her hand, to Butch again. He has to literally bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing at the look of complete astonishment on the art teacher's face.

"You...you drew these?" she whispers, and he narrows his eyes.

"Well, that _is_ the sketchbook you gave me, so I'd think so," he says flatly.

She chuckles a bit, apologetically. "It's just...yesterday you were so...er..." she pauses. "..._uninterested_ in the class that I thought—"

"Yeah, yeah," he cuts her off. "Stop acting like it's a big deal."

"Well, I think it is..." she trails off as he turns around and walks over to his usual seat behind his usually blank canvas. He sits down heavily, dutifully avoiding the smile the blonde woman is sending his way. God, she overhyped the whole thing so much, he's almost annoyed.

For the first couple of minutes, he stays seated, staring at the canvas. The stubborn part of him still wants to let it be, to walk out of this class feeling as productive as eating brown soup with a fork. It's a residual feeling, though; just leftover stubborness from before.

He decides that if he's going to be stuck here for two more days, he might as well get something out of it. So he looks up, trying to find some sort of inspiration from the ironically bland-looking studio. The walls are covered in mind-numbingly boring paintings and sketches that hurt to look at, so he turns to his imagination instead. But, since he pretty much exhausted all the ideas he had last night in the sketchbook, he comes up empty again.

He sighs, eyes darting to Miss Carlyle. She's just starting her walk around the class, and he'd rather do without her staring disappointedly at his blank canvas.

Not that it's getting to him—it's just extremely inconvenient to have someone breathing down his neck like that, and he's got a strong feeling that she'll be expecting more from him after the sketchbook.

Before he can start to rue drawing in the thing, he gets an idea. It's a weird one, and he'll probably get more confused glances than praise.

But fuck it.

He relishes when the teacher's mouth drops open in yet another blatant dumbfounded look. She looks so hilarious that, once again, he has to bite his lip so he doesn't start cackling like a maniac.

It's kinda shoddy, since he drew it rapid-fire, but detailed enough for anyone to know exactly what it is. And, despite the fact that he doesn't really care about remembering people's faces, he got Miss Carlyle's down pretty well. The drawing's only down to her shoulders, and she's smiling a wide, crinkly-faced smile: the one she flashed at him when she gave him the first sketchbook.

_You don't seem to flow in here_, she said.

Then she found a loophole. Gave him the sketchbook that screwed up the past few days.

"I didn't want to ask you this before," she says slowly, when she's regained her composure. "Since you were...erm..."

"Uninterested?" he suggests, and she laughs once and nods slightly.

"Yes. But with these...now I'm almost confident you'll agree." Her smile makes him suspicious.

"Say it before you decide that I'll bite," he tells her bluntly, and she nods again, the smile waning a little.

"Well," she begins slowly. "There are always a few...prodigies in art class with each year, and I'm always proud to have them. But with this bunch...I was starting to lose hope." She says the last part softly, so no one but Butch can hear. He snorts, and she shushes him immediately. "Not that they aren't good, it's just that their performance is...adequate to a fault."

"So you're saying that the entire class is full of mediocrity," Butch says in a tone that matches Miss Carlyle's, to her relief. "Or was, until I came around."

"Right," she says, and then that devious smile slips onto her face again, and Butch knows that he's going to have to listen to her next words very carefully. "I've been toying with this idea for a while, but you joining the class made me want to push through with it."

He keeps staring at her silently, until she speaks again.

"I've decided to make a little art showcase for the entire school, courtesy of the art class."

He saw something like this coming, but honestly it isn't as bad as he thought. "So, what? You want me to draw stuff for it?"

"Oh, no, I think all you've done is enough," she says. "I just thought I'd ask, since you're not a permanent student." Her expression clearly adds the word _yet_, but he ignores it.

"And if I say no?"

"Then there's nothing I can do." Her smile widens. "But I know you won't."

His eyes narrow. "How?"

"Because I know you like attention," she says, and then she looks away, fiddling with her sweater. "I'll only need a few, three at most. I'll take them from the sketchbook, okay?"

And then she walks away, leaving him with staring after her in confusion.

Did she just assume that he's an attention-seeker?

Because she's absolutely right, but it can't be THAT obvious.

He stays there, doing nothing and half-expecting her to come back and ask if he actually does want his drawings in the showcase, or something along those lines.

She continues with her rounds, and when he figures out that she has no intention of saying anything else to him, he turns his attenttion back to the drawing on the canvas. It looks incredibly rough, and he notices some mistakes that he overlooked before. He can fix them, sure, but that won't be enough of a challenge to keep him occupied for the remaining hour he's got in this class.

Unless...

His gaze shifts to the little paint palette on the table a ways away from where he's sitting. There's a paintbrush and a few tubes of acrylic paint beside it.

He thinks over it for a bit. Then he chuckles, once.

This is one of the very few things he's actually good at, so why not go the whole nine yards?

Once again, the world hazes out, but this time he's vaguely aware of what he's doing, mostly because he needs to concentrate. He's never really done this before—well, other than the weird paintings he did as a kid, but those looked more like eldritch abominations than drawings. He never meant for them to look normal, though: he guesses he's gained more of a filter over the years when it comes to drawing.

But he's never painted. Not properly, like this.

So he's not completely satisfied with it when its done; it could use more work, a little more detail in some places. But it's good, considering he did it in an hour. He's kinda proud of it, the way he was proud of the drawing of the city. And it bears an almost uncanny resemblance to the art teacher; the rosiness of her cheeks, the little wrinkles under her eyes, the way her face crinkles in that suspicious-looking smile.

The bell rings exactly two seconds after he sets the paintbrush down. He sits back to look at the canvas as the class files out. One of the other students pauses as he catches sight of the painting.

"Whoa. Nice work, man," the ginger-haired guy says with an admiring smile. "Have you painted anything else like that? I haven't seen anything like your art style in the class."

Butch watches as Ginger Boy looks around at the art pieces pasted all over the walls, almost feeling offended that someone would think any of those dull things were his work.

"Uh...no," he says. "This is my first painting."

"Your first?" Now he looks shocked, his blue eyes going comically wide. "Dude, that looks like you were born with a paintbrush in your hands!"

All of a sudden he's aware of the negative feeling as it dies down to a barely noticeable presence inside him. Then his body warms, and he smiles at the compliment despite himself.

"Thanks," he says awkwardly, and Ginger Boy grins.

"De nada. Teach me your ways next class, alright?" And then he salutes and peaces out, walking out of the class before Butch can think about how sure his words sounded.

_Next class._

He gets up slowly, casting one more glance at the painting. Then he chuckles a bit and walks over to Miss Carlyle, who is seated at her table in front of the class. She looks up after a few moments of him just standing there, and then smiles at him.

"Anything wrong?" she asks.

He takes a slow breath before speaking. "I want that to be one of them," he says, jerking his head in the direction of his canvas. "And don't use the drawing of Boomer, or that doodle page. Or the legs: that'd be weird."

She nods. Then, "But I can choose whatever ones I want from the rest?"

He hesitates, trying to remember any other one he would prefer no one to see. "Y-yeah," he says finally, and she tilts her head to the side, smile widening in what looks like empathy.

"Don't look so nervous, Butch," she laughs. "Trust me, you're good at what you do, and I just want other people to appreciate your work."

"I never said I didn't think I was good," he retorts.

"...no, you didn't." Her gaze shifts to the sketchbook, which lies closed on her desk. "I'll pick the other two. You'll see which ones they are at the showcase on Friday."

He gapes. "It's on Friday?"

She nods. "It was supposed to be on Saturday, originally. But then I realized that this is a high school, and the only students that come to school on Saturdays are the ones who have detention." She chuckles a little, and then leans back in her chair. "That's two days from now. Do you have a problem with it?"

"No, it's just... Two days isn't much time to plan a showcase."

"You'd be surprised."

With what he's experienced from her over the past three days, he can't really contest that.

But then an idea pops into his head. One that he shuts down almost immediately, but then the negative feeling increases, just a little.

_Great_, he thinks. _Now that I've gotten around to drawing, that's all you want me to do_. If he wasn't still feeling good because of what Ginger Boy said, he'd probably be annoyed.

"Can I draw for it?" he asks, and the art teacher sucks in a surprised breath. Before she can speak, he explains. "I want to draw something specifically for the showcase."

He likes familarity. Routine. And this class has brought him everything but those things. It almost made him go though an _existential crisis_, for crying out loud. But, despite that, he inwardly smiles.

Because, all the shit he's gone through the past few days excepted, he's decided that he doesn't dislike art class. Or art in general.

But there's no way he'll ever say that out loud.

So when Miss Carlyle smiles and says, "You're not as opposed to creativity as I thought you were, Butch."

He replies, "Your words, not mine."

* * *

When he gets home, he rummages through his closet for it. The front cover is all but torn off, and the first couple of pages are tattered, but it'll suffice.

He pulls it out and settles down at his window, opening to a neat page. He grabs a few pencils and the eraser that he now keeps on the windowsill. He's just started getting that weird, semi-conscious feeling when his bedroom door opens.

"Hey..." comes the tentative greeting, and he closes his eyes.

"Get out."

"Wait, I just wanted to—"

"I'm busy. _Get out_."

"I'm sorry, okay?" Boomer's voice sounds almost joking, but he can hear the sincerity in his tone. "I thought...I thought it would be funny..."

"Well it wasn't," he retorts. "Not to anyone. Not to Buttercup. And _definitely_ not to me." He casts his brother a pointed look at the last part, and the blond smiles sheepishly.

"Yeah, I realize that now. And I'm sorry." Butch looks away from the hopeful stare sent his way, returning his focus to the sketchbook. Boomer sighs. "C'mon, man, let bygones be bygones. Please?"

He tries to focus on drawing, but Boomer's eyes are practically boring into the side of his head, so he turns to look at him again. This time the blond's smile turns playful.

"You know I'm persistent as hell. You can't _not_ forgive me."

He's right. Unless he wants to have Boomer follow him around like a lost puppy until he yields, it's pointless to stay mad. And he's not even mad anymore. Just irritated that most of the crap he had to endure was because of this guy's idiocy, and that Boomer somehow managed to stay hidden from sight until the whole thing had blown over.

He sighs. "Fine." And when the blond starts to victory-dance, he adds, "Now get out. I'm busy."

"Right," he says, and leaves promptly, closing the door behind him. Butch shakes his head once, and then he continues his work. The sketch is starting to morph into the shape he was aiming for. His eyebrows furrow as the pencil darts furiously across the page, and he's almost there, he's almost got it—

Of course, that's when Boomer reappears.

"_For God's sake_," he hisses violently, sending the blond a withering glare unnerving enough to make him flinch.

"I know, I know," he says apologetically, holding his hands up in surrender. "I just have one question."

"_What_?"

"Why did you draw her?"

This time he stalls. "...what?"

"Buttercup," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world—which it kinda is. It's not like he's ask about Miss Carlyle.

Butch stares at him for a long time, not as much thinking of an answer as wondering why Boomer asked the question in the first place. Eventually, he replies flatly, "Why was she crying?"

"Wha—don't gimme that 'question with a question' crap," he says, eyes narrowing. "So what, you were just sitting there watching the pencil move and you didn't realize what you were drawing until you were done?"

_Exactly_, he wants to say, but he shrugs instead.

"Dude."

"I'm serious!" he defends. "I was sitting in my tree and then she came up and it just...happened."

Boomer's expression is now one of full-blown suspicion. "Well, the normal Butch would've probably destroyed the drawing immediately if it 'just happened'." he air-quotes as if Butch doesn't already know that it sounds like he's spewing nonsense. "Probably use the paper to smoke a joint or something… but you didn't."

He wants to talk then, and opens his mouth, even though he has no idea what to say. He really doesn't know why he didn't burn or rip the thing when he realized it.

Boomer speaks before he can conjure up some words. "And don't say you were going to destroy it at home, because we both know that if I hadn't seen it, you'd have kept it." He leans against the door. "So was the drawing just that good, or was it because of something else...?"

Butch has to talk now. "It wasn't because of anything else," he hisses, the depth of Boomer's implication making him shudder. "This is _Buttercup _we're talking about! _God_…"

"I know it was! That's why I'm asking, but so far you haven't given me a plausible answer." He pauses. "Or an answer at all, actually. So I have to go with my own conclusion, and honestly, I doubt you'd enjoy hearing it."

He glares at Boomer, who only stares back with an expectant expression. After a few seconds, he starts to really think about it, trying as best he can to find a reason, any reason, for why he drew her in the first place. He comes up empty again and again until his head starts to hurt.

"I...I dunno..."

"C'mon, Butch, I know you—"

"_I don't know_!" he bellows, and Boomer flinches. He lets out a tired sigh and buries his face in his hands, waiting for his breath to slow (why is he even angry?) before speaking again, in a tone that sounds more unsure than calm. "I...don't know, okay? I just..."

He sighs again, looking away from Boomer's confused expression. He begins thinking about how he'd felt when he was drawing her that day; the usual half-lucid trance he'd fallen into, how he hadn't even been aware of what he was doing until he'd finished.

But it was a different kind of semi-consciousness from that of the other drawings he made, only present when he was drawing Buttercup in particular. Even that first night, when he drew the city, hadn't felt the same. The only time he'd gotten the same feeling was when he drew her last night—

His eyes widen. He forgot about that one.

Miss Carlyle has it.

He remembers the crowd that formed around the drawing on the notice board, Buttercup included. He can practically taste the thrashing he'll get if that happens again. She'll probably think he spied on her or something equally overdramatic. Kick him in the balls for it, most likely.

_That'll be fun_, he thinks. Somehow the thought sounds both sarcastic and genuine.

Maybe leaving the drawing with Miss Carlyle won't be so bad, though. Maybe she might decide to choose something better over it. He could vouch for some of the other sketches in that book. But even if she does choose that drawing, it won't matter.

He's gotten his ass handed to him so many times that he's grown to expect it, as humiliating as that is to admit.

He remembers he has company, and his gaze shifts back to Boomer. He shrugs.

"I don't know why I drew her, okay?" he says. "I guess I wanted to keep it because it was my drawing. I like my drawings. I even drew you in my other sketchbook."

The blond's eyes light up. "Seriously? Can I see—"

"The sketchbook's with Miss Carlyle," he cuts him off.

"Ah." He leans against the door, and then shrugs. "Well, as long as I look good in it..."

Butch rolls his eyes. "You look like _you_ in it."

"…coming from you, that doesn't sound like something to look forward to."

They laugh, and then fall silent. Boomer stares at him intensely, as if trying to decipher his thoughts like they're written on his forehead. Then, finally, he sighs.

"It's weird," he says. "Seeing you draw, I mean."

"I used to draw all the time," Butch replies.

"I know, but that was different. Those were horrible kid doodles that deserved to be burnt." He chortles, but only for a second. "But seeing a drawing like that, knowing that it came from you...it's weird, but not exactly in a bad way."

"It's surprising," Butch says, and Boomer nods.

"Yeah." A smile creeps onto his face, and he nods his head a bit before turning around. "You're pretty good."

He watches as the blond opens the door, reeling. That's his second compliment today, and it's making him feel better than he thought it would.

"Wait," he says, and Boomer pauses, turning his head.

"Yeah?"

"You said you'd drawn your own conclusion. For why I drew her." He hesitated. He suddenly didn't want to hear it. "...what was it?"

Boomer grins. "That maybe those pencils of yours are telling the world a little too much about your feelings."

And then he ducks out of the room, laughing at Butch's unamused expression.

Once the door clicks shut, Butch sits back in his chair, his gaze focused on nothing in particular. A frown works its way onto his face.

Of course that was the first thing Boomer thought. It'd be the first thing anyone thought, really. People are dumb like that, even superpowered ones like his brother.

But that isn't it, obviously. Buttercup just so happens to possess some of the qualities that Butch wishes he had. She's pretty badass, to a level he hasn't quite reached yet, as much as he hates to admit it. And then there's the fact that somehow, despite her impulsivity and frequent bouts of violent rage, she's actually well-liked.

He wants to be well-liked.

Well, by the opposite sex, at least.

And if Buttercup Utonium is capable of generating a few catcalls (though they're always when she isn't around, for obvious reasons), then it's something he wants to trump her in.

He sighs. He's thinking way too much about this. Trust Boomer to say something that makes his brain kick into overdrive.

He picks up a pencil, weighing it in his hands.

_They tell a little too much_, he thinks, echoing Boomer's words.

He chucks the pencil back on the table and floats over to his bed, all traces of inspiration gone.

Screw Boomer. There's nothing for those pencils to tell.


	5. So It's Okay

A/N: Six thousand words written in three days, on my ruddy-ass phone. It's the most words I've ever written, so you've gotta admire my determination.

Reviews are well appreciated!

* * *

Thursday has never felt so slow. From the moment Butch sets foot on the school grounds, time seems to slow down. After what feels like three hours he's still stuck in first period, trying to stay woke through Algebra.

He's been feeling exceptionally sluggish ever since he woke up this morning, like he's suddenly been put on slo-mo. He fights back the urge to hurl his textbook at the board and ditch school altogether, because he actually has a reason to be here now.

And then he remembers that he didn't draw aanything last night, so he has nothing to give Miss Carlyle for the showcase tomorrow.

"Butch." He jerks to attention at the sound of his name. "Do you have a problem?"

"No..." he trails off, not knowing the teacher's name. He doesn't know the names of any of the staff, actually, other than Miss Keane and Miss Carlyle. He's not sure why Miss Carlyle's name stuck to him; maybe it's because she's the one who constantly gives him sketchbooks and makes him draw. And she's also the reason why he's stressing over his showcase drawing, mainly because he doesn't have one, and it's all because of stupid Boomer and his stupid words that made him overthink all of his life decisions—

"Butch," Mr. Whoever says again, snapping him out of his thoughts.

"I'm fine," he says, and then stares out the window, choosing to ignore the rest of the lesson.

And so it goes through the entire period, and the next. Lunchtime is the only form of relief Butch gets, and even that isn't saying a lot. Once he's seated with his brothers at their usual table, he finds himself staring vacantly at his lunch tray, half-listening to Boomer talk about how tedious playing the keyboard is. He looks around, feeling stifled. He finds a clock hanging on the far wall, and almost groans in frustration as he realizes that it's only been five minutes.

He can't be the only one feeling like this.

"Does today feel slow to you?" he asks suddenly.

Boomer looks up, his sandwich inches from his teeth. He thinks for a second, and then says, "Not for me," before devouring the entire thing.

"Brick?"

The redhead shrugs. "Feels the same as every other day. It's school."

He has a good point. School sucks in general. Nobody wants to be here, in the crowded cafeteria, surrounded by incessant noise and obnoxious laughter that sounds bad even for someone without superhearing. But it's worse than usual today because it's dragging by at a snail's pace. It feels like every long second is waiting for him, like he's supposed to be doing something of such importance that even time is slowing down for his sake. But he doesn't know what said thing is.

"Hey, uh, are you gonna eat that?" Boomer asks, eyeing the tuna sandwich on Butch's tray greedily.

He snatches it away before the blond can take it. "Bitch, just because I'm restless doesn't mean I don't have an appetite." He gives the fruit on his tray a dismissive wave. "You can take that, though."

"Why would I want an apple?"

"You can take one of mine," Brick says. His tray is untouched, the pair of tuna sandwiches pretty much staring them all in the face. Boomer shoots Brick a skeptical expression.

"Are you kidding?"

"Do I look like I am?"

Boomer watches Brick carefully, trying to pinpoint any sign of a lie. Then he shrugs and reaches for a sandwich—only to recoil with a disgusted yelp as Brick sneezes violently all over the tray. Butch chokes on saliva, guffawing loudly as the redhead picks up his food with a straight face and an unapologetic "My bad."

Boomer watches, horrified, as Brick offers the food to him. "Wha–no! Hell no! That's _gross_!"

"It's just a little spit," Butch teases, holding back more laughter.

"And mucus, and everything else that comes out when you sneeze!" Boomer practically shrieks, shifting away from the contaminated tray with a violated expression. "Ugh. You are the worst kind of people."

"We're guys, and your brothers to boot. It's our job," Brick says, pushing the tray away from him. "Now I can't eat this. Thanks a lot."

Boomer stares at him incredulously. "How is that my fault?"

"It isn't. But since I'm the oldest I can blame you two for anything."

"And since I'm the youngest, I'm basically a walking target, right?"

"You're keeping up. That's good."

At this point Butch is chortling so hard he's about to fall out of his chair.

This makes him feel a little better. At least he can laugh; that makes the day considerably less unspectacular.

He leans back in his chair, gaze wandering as he tries to stop snickering like an idiot at Boomer's repulsed face. The cacophonous talking that fills the cafeteria fades into white noise as he starts to fall back into his normal state of mind.

Then his eyes meet another pair of green ones. Buttercup frowns at him from the other side of the cafeteria, and he grins despite himself, sending her a wink. She sneers and looks away, and he chuckles quietly.

There it is. The familiar feeling of amusement he gets from riling her up.

At least something else has gone back to normal.

The bell rings, and he's out of his chair in seconds, his feet steering him towards the doors of their own accord. He would feel embarrassed about his eagerness if the rest of the cafeteria wasn't heading the same way.

* * *

"It doesn't matter, Butch," Miss Carlyle says with a laugh. "Just because you want to draw doesn't mean you have to do so. That backfires quite a few times, especially if you don't feel like it."

"But I _did_ feel like it," Butch replies, fairly aware of how whiny he sounds. "At least until Boomer came along and did one of those dumb things he always does."

She raises an eyebrow. "What did he do?"

"He _spoke_."

She bites back a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. "I should've expected that."

Art class just started. A few days ago, Butch would be a little worried about how early he got here because, well, _class_. But now that he's come to terms with the fact that Art is the only subject he actually wants to be a part of (other than PE, but he doesn't really think of that as a subject), it doesn't really faze him as much as it normally would.

What fazes him now is that fact that he still hasn't gotten over the bout of artistic deadness that has come over him ever since the conversation with Boomer last night.

He doesn't know why this is. One thing he's sure of is that it isn't Boomer's suspicion; he doesn't give two shits about Buttercup romantically. He knows that. She's _Buttercup_, for God's sake.

The only thing he _does_ have a problem with is his art exposing some of the other, darker throughts hidden deep within his psyche.

Seriously. That shit would probably creep even his brothers out.

Though he's not sure why that's stopping him now. He's never cared about stuff like that before.

"I can't just sit here and do nothing," he tells Miss Carlyle, glaring at the canvas propped up in front of him. She chuckles—he's starting to really fucking hate how much she laughs.

"If you were a permanent student, you couldn't. But since you aren't, I can pardon you today." She starts heading for her desk to fish out her notes (or whatever she uses in this class, he doesn't freaking know). "If you feel like drawing, though, you can."

He proceeds to slouch in his chair, kick at his canvas, and groan obnoxiously loud every couple of seconds. This goes on for forty-five minutes, until Miss Carlyle finally gets sick of him and tells him to sit outside the class if he won't shut the hell up.

Well, not in those words, but he gets the message clarly enough.

So the next ten minutes of class are spent with him slouching in his chair, kicking at his canvas, and keeping his mouth shut.

At least until the person next to him calls his name. He turns his head slightly, levelling the voice's owner a glare.

Ginger Boy raises his hands in surrender. "I come in peace," he says. "Just wondering who pissed in your cornflakes today."

"My brother," Butch responds, and Ginger Boy snorts.

"I like how I just _know_ which one you're talking about." He stretches in his chair, peering at his blackened fingers. He seems to prefer charcoal over any other medium; it's one of the few things Butch has bothered to notice. "But that shouldn't be enough to make you not wanna draw, right?"

"...let's just say that he kinda got to me," Butch says, and then mutters, "As much as I hate to admit it..."

"Hmm." He watches the redhead's eyebrows furrow as he thinks. "Then just do what I do."

"And what's that?"

"Don't listen to him. Or just keep him out of your room."

Butch's eyes narrow. "You know that my brothers can literally punch entire buildings to rubble, right?" he says, rather offended at Ginger Boy's dumb suggestion. "But _sure_, maybe locking my door will finally keep him out after eleven years of it not doing so."

At Butch's blatant sarcasm, the redhead laughs once. "Okay, that was dumb advice."

"Yeah."

The silence that follows is deafening. It's not awkward or anything; it's just that Butch can tell that the guy's searching for something else to say.

It's annoying sometimes, how people tend to try and give him advice about things, when they're nothing like him. They aren't superpowered, impulsive, attention-seeking teenagers with a myriad of unsettling thoughts swimming around in their heads.

Well, some of them are, excepting the superpowered part, but that's beside the point. The point is, the only five people who could even understand him, even just a little bit, either don't care because they live with him and are therefore used to his behaviour, or think he's a feral ex-con (though going to juvvie nine times is really not that impressive of a feat in his opinion, he's seen worse).

"Well, don't you have a muse or something?" Ginger Boy finally asks, and at the sight of Butch's blank expression, he continues. "Y'know, a muse. A source of inspiration. Something—or someone—that makes you want to draw, or do anything remotely artistic."

"Uh, I don't—" He stops.

_What in the ever-loving fuck_, he thinks, because he cannot freaking believe his stupid brain right now.

Because, of all people—_of all the living organisms on this fucking blue-green planet_—the first person that pops into his mind is _Buttercup_.

The very thought makes him recoil so hard he almost falls out of his chair. At Ginger Boy's quizzical look, he spits out a vehement "No I do not have a muse."

But through his stifled groan, it just sounds like a guttural jumble of nonsense.

"O...kay?" Ginger Boy says with a confused expression. Butch decides not to look at him, so he doesn't make him feel obligated to say something else that's stupid. He grunts and looks at his canvas with a disgusted expression which—thankfully—gets his point across. The redhead doesn't speak again.

No wonder Boomer thinks he has the hots for her. After two drawings of her face and _whatever the fuck this is_, he can't even blame him anymore.

So he slouches further into his chair, kicks at his canvas, and proceeds to ignore Ginger Boy until the bell rings, which is only after five minutes.

Finally time is working in his favour.

"If anyone is having second thoughts about the projects they handed in for the showcase, see me after school," Miss Carlyle calls as the students file out of the studio. Ginger Boy gives him a sheepish salute before he leaves. He doesn't bother responding.

He's just starting to ponder skipping his next class—he genuinely cannot handle Geography right now—when Miss Carlyle saunters over with that crinkly smile on her face.

"It's really okay," she says. "I can just take a few more drawings from the sketchbook you—"

"No," he hisses. He has to draw something. Anything. He _has to_, or he'll end up glaring at his bedroom ceiling tonight, thinking about his life instead of sleeping. He knows how the negative feeling operates already, even after just two days of it bothering him. "I have to—" he stops. "...I _want_ to draw something for the showcase."

"Butch, the showcase is tomorrow. And with how _uncreative_ you are right now—" she pauses to stare pointedly at the poorly-drawn stick figure he drew on his canvas. "—I doubt you'll be able to bring me a finished drawing before then."

"I bet I can," he retorts, and she raises an eyebrow. He watches as she crosses her arms over her chest, quickly changing from smiling art teacher to _intimidating_ art teacher. He actually swallows in discomfort.

"Really now?" she says softly, eyes challenging.

"Yeah, absolutely."

"Alright!" she claps her hands together loudly, making him jerk. "Then I want a drawing the size of your canvas by the end of today."

His mouth drops open.

"Shouldn't be too hard, since you are a boy of quite a number of talents," she says with a smirk, and then turns around, heading back to her desk. "I just hope speed is one of them. So don't disappoint me."

And with that, she gathers up the few papers on her table and walks out of the class without another word, and Butch wants to slam his head against a wall.

He's never getting this done.

* * *

He's so close to getting this done.

The paper from his sketchbook is hella tattered from his less-than-careful handling, but he doesn't care anymore. There's only seven minutes left until after school and he is _so_ gonna rub this in Miss Carlyle's face.

Sure, he got three detention slips for drawing in all of his subsequent classes, and he taped two pages from his sketchbook side by side so he'd have enough room, and the paper is rumpled and dirty as anything, but who cares? He's gonna relish seeing that dumbfounded look on the blonde woman's face.

It's a skull. An incredibly detailed skull that is completely made up of all sorts of different kinds of doodles and designs that just look _so freaking cool_. He can already picture it pasted on a wall, with a crowd of awed students forming around it, chattering about how goddamn awesome the thing looks. They're gonna talk about it for a good couple of days, and that's all he wants. He'll eat up even the slightest acknowledgement over something he's actually good at.

He looks up at the clock. Four minutes left. Thank God his last period is study hall.

"Wow," comes a whisper from beside him. For once, he doesn't care that he's sitting next to Bubbles. "That's...really good."

"You sound extremely surprised," he says, a bit of annoyance seeping into his voice. Out of the corner of his he sees her smile apologetically.

"Sorry. I just...wasn't expecting it from you, y'know?"

_You aren't the only one_, he thinks, but he says, "Yeah, I know."

He can feel her watching as he finishes drawing the teeth. There's a minute left on the clock, and he literally has just one tooth left and he'll be done. Then she pipes up.

"Oh, you're doing this for that art showcase tomorrow, right?"

He stalls, looking up at her. "You know about that?"

"Yeah, I'm friends with Gemma. She's in Art so she told me about it."

He frowns. "Gemma?"

She hums dryly. He wonders if that's possible, but then again, this is Bubbles. "I figured that you wouldn't know her. You aren't very sociable in Art class."

He scoffs, shooting her an unamused look. "How would you know?" he asks. "Or did Gemma tell you that, too?"

She leans forward, peering closer at his drawing. "No, you're just unsociable in all your classes, so I assumed this one wouldn't be any different."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

She looks up at him and smiles. "Unsociable people are usually interesting."

The bell rings.

His eyes widen, and he turns his attention back to his drawing, pencil flying across the paper at light speed as he finishes the final tooth.

_Oh, thank God._

"I gotta go," he says, scrambling to his feet.

"Wait," she says, grabbing his arm. A sheepish grin spreads across her face; she looks way too much like Miss Carlyle.

His eyes narrow. "What?"

"Can I borrow your History textbook?" she asks. "I can't find mine, and I wanted to—"

"I don't care." He tries to pull away, but her grip tightens. Something unsettling twinkles in her eye, and she frowns at him.

"_Please_?"

He takes a few seconds to wonder how she can manage to look desperate and scary at the same time. Then he sighs; History doesn't matter to him anyway.

"Fine," he says. "But I have to go submit this first."

"Just pick it up on your way there and give it to me once you're done." She's smiling again—it's like she has a second personality. "I'll be in the dance studio."

Ah, the dance studio. After school that place is packed with girls practicing...whatever girls in Dance class practice. An almost-palpable image of him walking in on several hot, sweaty girls in rather interesting positions forms in his head.

"Hey." A smack on the arm snaps him out of his fantasy. Bubbles is frowning again. "Keep your hormones in check, Romeo."

"Aw, a pet name?" he says with a smirk, brushing a hand across her cheek. "I didn't think we'd gotten to that stage, _sweetheart_."

"Ugh, barf." she pulls away from him, heading towards the door. "Change of plans. I'll be waiting _outside_ the dance studio."

He laughs. "You wound me, Bubbles."

They walk out of the study hall together, then turn in opposite directions. Eventually his walk turns into a run, and then into a fly, but he's not sure when. All he knows is that he's moving quickly down the halls, trying to navigate the packed halls and not smash into anyone because he's not about to wrench someone out of the human-shaped crater they'll make in one of the walls.

He should've known that the universe wouldn't make it so easy. Just because he's cool with art now doesn't mean life will stop making shit hard for him.

It happens when he makes his stopover at his locker to fish out his History textbook. Just as he's about to take off again, he's stopped by the overly annoying voice of a teacher that's trying way too hard to be authoritative.

"Butch!"

"Ugh, _what_?"

"You have detention."

Butch's face scrunches up in irritation, glaring daggers at the toupeed, fat, incredibly short man who looks like he's about to explode, he's so red. He's never seen this one before; he must be new. "I'm aware. But I have something very important to submit."

"Yes, it seems so," the man says. His voice is nasal and disturbing, and he sounds entirely unconvinced by Butch's words. "But right about now, you have detention."

"Heard you the first time, chubby," he deadpans. "Also, you might wanna adjust that rug of yours."

At the stifled snickers that come from the passing students, Mr. Hairpiece touches his head, turning even redder, if that's possible. Butch suppresses a guffaw.

"It's Mr. Little to you," he demands, his voice going up an octave. Butch can't help but snort this time; it's just so _fitting_. "And you're coming with me right this minute, or else you'll be graduating to a week's detention."

"I'm so scared."

Mr. Hairpiece looks like he's about to have an aneurism. Butch is holding back laughter. And then he hears the sound of approaching footsteps.

Authoritative, principal-like footsteps.

"What's going on here, Mr. Little?" she asks.

Butch groans. "Oh, fuck me."

"Language," they say in unison. Miss Keane's smirk is barely visible, but y'know.

Super vision.

* * *

There are three other people in detention with him. With the aura of murderous intent emanating from him, they wisely stay away.

Mr. Little has his small, fat legs propped up on the table in front of the small class, paging through a magazine with a bored expression and occasionally sipping at a cup of tea.

He wants to snap those legs, or just throw the little kiss-ass out the window. It would be particularly satisfying to hear him scream nasally as he went down. He'd probably never walk again either way, and that'd teach him not to get what he wants by being a sycophantic piece of shit.

God, he wants to break something.

He looks at the clock—he's still got a whole hour left here. He can make it. Without killing someone, at least.

Miss Keane didn't care for the ass-kissing, Butch could tell that much. She liked seeing the little man (pun unintended) squirm just as much as he did.

But she also liked to screw with Butch. And that's why he's here.

He still doesn't like the puny, ingratiating son of a bitch.

Damn. Anger really turns him into a dictionary.

The time ticks by at an agonizingly slow pace. It's a repeat of this morning, right when he needs time to fly right by. Miss Carlyle's probably leaving soon, and if she does, this detention—and the ones he's got tomorrow and _Saturday_ because teachers suck—will have been obtained for nothing.

Mr. Little takes a long sip of tea, the loud slurping sound making Butch cringe.

He can make it.

A horrible belch rips from the ugly man's throat, cutting through the air abruptly enough to make the other students jerk.

Butch's eye twitches.

_Yeah, fuck this._

He stands up so quickly his chair topples over. Grabbing his backpack, textbook and drawing, he makes his way toward the door.

"Hey," Mr. Little calls, turning red again. "Hey, stop right there!"

Butch raises his right hand, and at the sight of the spark of green that flashes across his fingers, the man backs down fast.

Butch sneers. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

As he walks out of the class, Mr. Little regains his voice. "Miss Keane will hear about this!" he practically squeaks, getting to his feet.

Butch snorts. "The fact that I actually followed you here probably surprised her. Sit your stubby ass down."

He doesn't wait to see if he obeys.

The halls are mostly empty by now, making it easy to fly at a quicker pace. Eventually he's going fast enough to only just avoid smashing into a wall—or a student—when he makes a turn.

It's kinda fun.

When he spots the courtyard—the only thing separaing him and the hallway that leads to art class—he picks up speed. He zooms along the hallway at breakneck speed, clutching the drawing close to his chest.

Then when he reaches the courtyard, something slams into him with crushing force, sending him crashing to the ground.

"'Fuck's sake…" groans the projectile from beside him, and as his vision comes into focus, he finally realizes that the universe hates him. It must. It can't _not_.

He decides to get up and leave as soon as he can. While he's in the process of doing this, though, a hand grabs the hood of his jacket.

"Hey, asshole," Buttercup grunts. "An apology would be nice."

He sighs. Not now. He glances around; there are a few students still handing around. A fight wouldn't be the best idea here.

But then again, that's never deterred him. Or Buttercup.

"We were both rushing," he grunts. "Call it a tie."

"I wasn't flying at high speed," she retorts.

"God, can we not do this right now?" he hisses suddenly. When she doesn't let go of his jacket, he gives her an uppercut. It's a weak one (by superhuman standards at least), just enough to make her recoil and let go.

She growls. He spins around so her punch lands on his back, his grip tight around the paper in his hands. When he turns back, her expression is confused. "What—"

"You're being a pain, Butterbitch," he cuts her off, then sweeps her legs. She trips and faceplants, but grabs his leg as he tries to get away, making him fall too. "Ow—"

The first thing he sees when he reorients himself is Buttercup straddling him, reaching for the drawing. She's curious.

That's bad.

He propels himself upward violently, giving her an epic headbutt. Then he rolls to his feet and backpedals. "I don't want to fight you," he says.

She actually laughs. Like, a real, honest-to-God laugh.

He nods. "Sounds like bullshit, I know."

Then he turns and starts to walk away. _Please_, he begs her in his head. _Please act like a normal person, just this once._

"Stop."

No dice.

She tackles him from behind, sending both of them sprawling.

The universe hates him.

"Goddammit, stop—" he hisses, struggling against her. He knows this isn't about fighting him. She wants to see what he's holding, because to her, due to his notorious reputation, it's probably something stolen.

Typical goody-two-shoes wanting to save the day, even when there's nothing to save.

He kicks his leg backwards, hitting her in the shin. She grunts and crumples. He crawls out from under her, trying to catch his breath. When he turns she's already on top of him, straddling him again (he'd make a comment about this if he wasn't so desperate to get away from her).

Before he can react, she reaches for his drawing. But the movement is too forceful, with way too much momentum behind it.

Butch can only watch as her hand plunges right through the paper, tearing it in half.

For two long seconds, they don't move.

Then he roars and punches her in the chest, sending her flying into a bush on the other side of the courtyard. Almost immediately she pushes herself out, and launches herself in his direction.

He raises his fist, which sparks ominously.

"Stop!"

They stop within mere inches of each other. Miss Keane and Mr. Little came just in time. Fury explodes in Butch's chest, and he punches Buttercup anyway. She staggers backward.

"You—"

"Buttercup!" Miss Keane shouts. "Be the bigger person!"

"The bigger—" she casts the principal a look of infuriated exasperation. "He just _punched me in the face_!"

"That was a project for my art class, you impulsive, psychopathic _shithead_!" he screams.

"Butch!" Miss Keane shouts.

"Well, shit, it's not like I knew it was something important!" Buttercup shrieks back.

"Language!"

"Yeah, totally go for the object that I'm guarding against your hits because _obviously I'm just fucking protecting it for fun_."

"Butch, don't—"

"You're talking like you don't do the same thing to me all the fucking time!"

"Buttercup—"

"_Do I look like I'm in the fucking mood right now, Buttercup_!?"

"_Do I look like I give a shit_!?"

"Enough!" Mr. Little screams, coming in between both of them. It's a brave move for a fragile little normie. "Week's detention! Both of you!"

"_Who gives a fuck about detention_!?" they bellow in unison.

"Little, shut up," Miss Keane sighs. "Butch, Buttercup, go home. I'll deal with you two tomorrow."

"I fucking _hate_ you," he snarls.

"Butch." she casts him a warning glare. "Go. Home."

He looks down at his shaking hands. The paper's torn right down the middle of the skull he worked on for two hours. The rest of it, already in bad shape from his poor handling, tears away until he's holding nothing but bits and pieces of pencil lines on worn paper.

He lets it fall to the ground, and then launches his History textbook at Buttercup. It whacks her in the face with a painful crack.

"Butch, calm down!" Miss Keane cries. "Stop it!"

His gaze is trained on Buttercup. She's holding her nose, and blood is gushing through her fingers.

Good.

"Give that to Bubbles for me."

And then he walks off, keeping his gaze down. He punches a tree along the way. It splits down the middle.

He keeps his fists clenched, but that doesn't stop the shaking.

* * *

"Butch?"

He looks up at Miss Carlyle as she steps out of the art studio. He's sitting on the floor in the fetal position; he didn't want to go home, but he couldn't bring himself to go inside. Not when he had nothing to show her.

She sits down beside him, her expression worried. "When you didn't show up after school, I figured you went home—"

"Buttercup and I got into a fight," he blurts out, and then shifts his gaze to his hands. "She tore the drawing I made."

Her expression turns sympathetic. "I'm sorry."

He wants to say it's fine, but it's not fine, so he says nothing instead.

"Hey, if you want, you can choose a few drawings from the sketchbook so I can—"

"Can you stop talking about that fucking sketchbook?" he snaps, and then feels bad about it when he sees her face. He sighs. "It's just...I wanted to make something _specifically_ for the showcase. Not just some other doodle I submit in art class just to feel productive. And then you said not to disappoint you, so..." he looks down at his hands again. "...yeah, I feel like a piece of crap now."

She winces suddenly. "Okay, maybe that wasn't my best choice of words in that particular situation," she says. "But you shouldn't blame yourself for it. Buttercup tore the paper, not you."

"I worked hard on it."

"Every art piece is worked hard on one way or the other, so that isn't an excuse to blame yourself, either."

He falls silent at that. She sighs.

"It really doesn't matter whether you draw something for the showcase or not," she says.

"It does to me."

"Why is this beating you up so much?" she asks suddenly. Her expression is worried again. "I mean, I can understand you being mad that your drawing was decimated, but still...it's affecting you a lot more than I thought it would."

He's been asking himself the same question for a while. Hell, he's been asking questions similar to this one ever since he started Art class. But only now does he know the answer. It's not as sensitive as all the other stuff swimming around in his head, but it's still something that isn't all that easy to say. He knows that telling her—telling anyone, really—would be the most freaking uncomfortable thing he's ever done, and he knows she'll probably try to comfort him or do something equally stupid.

But he sucks it up and speaks.

"Because art's the first thing I've ever given a shit about," he murmurs—suddenly talking doesn't seem so easy. He takes a breath. "It's just...I've always wanted to be the guy that people talk about, but I never gave much thought to the subject matter in question."

And he really didn't. Granted, being Townsville High's perverted asshole doesn't really bother him; it gives him a free pass to look at girls without being judged more than usual, which is basically heaven. But it's never been a good thing. People don't think he knows that, but he does.

He just tries not to think about it too much.

"When I draw..._what_ I draw...I always get kinda proud of it. 'Cause it's unexpected, but in a good way," he says, echoing Boomer's words from last night. "So I guess...I want people to acknowledge me for something I'm actually good at."

He wants to say more. There is so much to say. But he feels like shit already, and spilling out all his pathetically insecure thoughts to his Art teacher doesn't seem like the best way to improve his mood. So he decides to focus on his hand, on the little dent in his middle finger where his pencil rests when he draws. He touches the depression; it's weird how it feels like the very bone has bent inward.

"I'm glad," she begins, and he groans internally.

Here it comes. The 'you're so brave for telling me this' speech. How could he have assumed she'd be different? She's a normal human, with normal human responses. The best he can get out of her is a nice, gift-wrapped box of pity.

But then he remembers that she's not just a normal human. She's Miss Carlyle, which means that her next words are less than expected: "I'm glad that I'm teaching the only class that you don't find shitty."

There are a few reasons why that sentence surprises him, but the most glaring one makes him look up at her in confused surprise. "What?" he asks.

She smirks. "What? Just because I'm a kindly old art teacher doesn't mean I can't cuss." she pauses. "Actually, that fact that I am all those things makes me more likely to cuss, in my opinion. But that's not what we're talking about." Her smile fades, her expresion turns serious. "I'm gonna ask you three questions. First: you like art, right?"

"Yeah."

"You know that you're good at it, but you want to get better. You want to keep drawing, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"And what you draw makes you feel good, positive emotions?"

"Yeah...?"

"Then congratulations, Butch. You've just found yourself a passion." she beams, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And if that passion tells you to draw, then you had better go ahead and draw. Mistakes happen, drawings get lost and destroyed, and there will always be stupidly insensitive people who bug you or say dumb things. But what's important is that you keep drawing." She pauses. "Do you know why?"

"...why?"

"Because you're going to fuel that insane need inside you. Regardless of whether people like it or not, or whether they acknowledge you or not, you're gonna keep doing what you want." Her grip tightens, just a bit, to get her point across. "Only you are in charge of your passion, Butch."

He stares. She stares back, letting the silence linger until it's just about to feel awkward.

Then all of a sudden she gets up and dusts off her jeans. "Thank you for coming to my TED talk. Now get up."

"Uh, what?"

"This is not the time to be dumb, Butch," she sighs. "Come on, get up."

She leads him into the art studio. All the chairs have been moved and stacked in a corner, so now there's a large empty space in the middle of the room. It's a whole lot bigger than he thought it would be.

When she doesn't move or say anything for a full minute, Butch pipes up. "Um, what am I looking at?"

"A free art studio, full of all the..._generic art stuff_." she gestures widely to nothing in particular. He turns to look at her in confusion. "There's also a—a really big canvas in the corner." She points. "Only for special art pieces, off-limits to students. It's a..._very special canvas_."

Then she makes a swift U-turn and grabs her bag off her table, not bothering to look up at him.

"...oh."

_Oh, shit._

"So I'm assuming that you're going to find your way out of the school grounds on your own, so I'm locking the door behind me," she turns to look at him, her hand on the doorknob. Then she chuckles a bit. "Don't just stand there! You're a kid in an unsupervised candy store!"

He grins. "Then there's only one thing to do."

"Go nuts." She flashes him that signature, devious little smile; with all the stuff she's said and done, it doesn't seem so bad anymore. Then she nods once and turns to leave. "See you tomorrow."

"Miss Carlyle?"

"Yup?"

"I guess I'm not as opposed to creativity as you thought I was, huh?"

She chuckles, then shrugs. "I wouldn't know. I'm _terrible_ at reading people."


	6. End

Here we go. Eleven thousand words, and the final instalment of this fic.

I'd love to know what you think, so leave a review! :-)

* * *

He genuinely cannot believe he actually dressed up for this.

Well, a green dress shirt and black jeans isn't exactly dressing up, but by Butch's standards, he might as well have worn a suit. He feels stifled as hell with a collar clinging tightly to his neck, the cuffs are too tight, and it's only been three minutes but he doubts that he can make it for much longer. He's glad he decided against wearing it this morning, or he'd have ripped the dress shirt to shreds before second period.

It's after school, and everyone in Townsville High is being held back for the showcase. Only nobody knows its a showcase but the art students, Miss Carlyle, and Bubbles.

Said art students, Butch included, are all standing around uselessly in the gymnasium, waiting for the showcase to commence. Butch has long since grown tired of the boring silence that stretches endlessly between his classmates, so he decides to break away from the group and walks to a more distanced part of the gym.

He still can't believe they're doing this here. He can understand not being able to rent someplace outside because, let's face it, Townsville High sucks. But couldn't they have done this in the courtyard or something? Or one of the bigger classes? Well, fuck, he doesn't know, it's just that he can think of a lot of better options than the freaking _gym_.

He settles down on the bleachers, his gaze ricocheting around the tremendous hall. Well, in terms of size, this was a good idea. But in terms of everything else—like the underlying smell of sweat and old socks that seems to intensify the longer he's in here—this. Freaking. Blows.

As the time slowly passes, he becomes more and more aware of how much it sucks to wait for stuff; everything slows down and no matter how long you think you've been waiting you still have to wait some more. He manages to power through it for a little while, but before long his feet are tapping furiously at the floor and every so often his body churns out his restlessness in the form of a twitch.

He hates this goddamn twitch.

"Hey." the familiar voice startles him a little, making him jerk. It's Ginger Boy.

"Hey," he replies quietly, and then they both fall silent.

As Ginger stands awkwardly in front of him, Butch feels himself get annoyed again. Is this what he came here to do? Is he unable to strike up a conversation with literally anyone else in this class? Granted, the guy's conversational skills are nothing to be smiled upon (except for his compliments, but Butch is a little biased), but there should be at least one person in the entirety of art class that has time for him.

He sighs. "Did you want something?"

"Um." he shifts, trying to get the words out. All of a sudden the redhead looks completely different from his usual casual self; now he's awkward and timid. "I just...wanted to give you this."

Butch stares down at the piece of paper Ginger Boy has stretched out in front of him. It takes him a few seconds to register what he's looking at, but when he does, his eyebrows furrow.

It's his sketch of the city.

Wait. No, it's not. He isn't familiar with the art style, and since he spent hours looking at that sketch when he first drew it, he can tell the differences. The most prominent one being that it was drawn with charcoal.

This isn't his. It's Ginger Boy's.

"How did you draw this?" he asks, taking the paper out of the redhead's hands. He peers at it closely; he did a pretty good job replicating something Butch burnt to dust. At the question, the guy's awkward again.

"Well...when Principal Keane found it, she brought it over to Miss Carlyle so she could see what you could do," he says. "It looked really cool, so I tried to make my own version from the top of my head when Miss Keane took it back. Then you burnt the original, so...I guess I felt like I was stealing it, in a way." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "So I wanted to give it to you."

Butch stares. Does this guy think he's that good? So good that he'd want to emulate something he drew? It's just something Butch likes to do, something about himself that he's learnt to appreciate. Maybe that appreciation makes his art more...what? Appealing? Worthy of being admired? The attention-seeker inside of him is practically going crazy, but he's feeling something else, too.

His grip tightens around the paper. "Hey, uh...I never got your name," he says.

Ginger Boy smiles. "Marley," he says. "I'm Marley."

"...Marley." he commits the name to memory, though it's probably not going to stick, considering Butch's past with remembering names. Still, the guy went to this trouble, unnecessary as it may have been. He's already gotten past the whole thing, and he doesn't want the drawing anymore. However, burning a pretty good copy that was made by someone else wouldn't exactly be the best way to go about things.

So he presses the paper back into Marley's hands with a shake of his head. "Go put it with the rest of your drawings," he tells him.

"What? No, I want to give it to you—"

"I'm over it," he cuts him off abruptly, and then takes a breath. He can be nice—well, he can _try_ to be nice. "It's cool that you wanted to copy-" he pauses. "...emulate my art. And it looks really good. But you made it, so you should keep it. It's yours."

"I..." The redhead stares at him for a few moments, his expression contemplative. In a bid to completely cancel out the possibilty of Marley insisting he keep it, he holds up a hand. An ominous flash of green sparks across his fingers.

"If you give it back to me I'll incinerate it." he stares blankly at him. "It'd be a shame for your work to go to waste."

The light from Butch's hand reflects off of Marley's blue eyes, making them glow an iridescent lime. Every time he does this to someone, Butch can see the emotions written on the other person's face. The usuals are anything between the lines of fear and anger. He's gotten used to seeing unplesant emotions in other people's eyes when they look at him. He's the one that causes them, after all.

But Marley's eyes show no ounce of fear or anger. His stare is equally blank, face illuminated with green.

He smirks, holding the drawing above Butch's glowing fingers. "Do it then."

He's so taken aback that his power fizzles out. "What?"

"Going to all the trouble to give this to you, only to have you reject it?" he says, his smirk turning into a grin. "That's a blow to my pride. And no one wants evidence of wounded pride, right?"

In an instant, he gets it. And then he's grinning too, because this guy surprised him almost as much as Miss Carlyle always does.

"We'd best get rid of it, then," he replies.

"Yup."

His hand erupts in green light again, and without hesitation Marley lets the drawing fall from his fingers. The electric energy catches the paper, consuming it in a small, quick burst of flame. The ashes scatter and fall to the floor, and Marley coughs at the smell of smoke.

"Hey!" They both whip around at the voice. Miss Carlyle is walking hurriedly over to them, her expression a mixture of confusion and worry. "What on earth are you two doing?"

"Making a pact for our new secret sex cult," Butch responds immediately, his grin stopping her in her tracks.

"Butch!" Marley hisses, but Butch can tell by the hint of a smile on the redhead's lips that he's playing along.

So he shrugs. "Guess it's not a secret anymore."

"It's still open to newcomers, though."

"Especially girls."

"Especially girls, yeah."

Her gaze darts from him to Marley, to the pile of dusty ash on the floor between the two of them. The silence stretches out for a number of long seconds, and then she does the slow blinking thing that people do when they wish to extricate themselves from odd situations.

"Y'now what? I don't even want to know," she sighs, and then heads off in the direction of another student across the gym.

Once she's out of earshot, they burst into quiet chortles at Butch's quick-fire response.

"A cult, huh?" Marley chuckles, clutching his sides.

"Saying something weird is the best way to get teachers off your back," Butch says. They both look down at the ashen remnants of Marley's drawing at their feet.

He can't say he expected the guy to react that way. It was pretty brave, considering people are terrified of Butch's powers. Marley just straight-up loooked him in the eye and dared him to do it in the friendliest way possible. Under normal circumstances he'd be annoyed as hell, but he's decided that Marley's got guts. Anyone who's got the balls to stand up to any one of the Rowdyruffs has Butch's respect.

"Okay everyone!" Miss Carlyle's voice rings out way louder than he was expecting it to, and they both jump. "It's showtime in ten minutes. Head to your personal exhibits and get everything ready."

Marley looks up at him. "I gotta go," he says. "I'd say good luck, but..." he pauses to stare pointedly at Butch's exhibit. "...I think you're sorted. Everyone's gonna want to see your stuff first, because it's awesome."

The unexpected flurry of compliments makes Butch suddenly flustered; he rubs the back of his neck and nods awkwardly, making Marley chuckle.

"You should get used to the praise, Butch," he says as he walks away. "Pretty sure you're gonna be getting a lot of it today."

He has to say something. He has to respond. He's seen Marley's work, and it's good. Way better than a lot of the stuff he's seen.

Why is it so hard for him to say anything, then?

He walks over to his exhibit. His painting is hung up above all of the other stuff Miss Carlyle gave the greenlight. He spent hours on it yesterday; he ended up leaving the school gounds at 8pm and getting home exhausted. Boomer said he looked like he'd been shat on by a unicorn, so Butch kicked the crap out of him.

It turned out pretty good. He thinks Marley's words hold water, but he's obviously still just reeling from the guy's compliment.

His gaze shifts to Marley's exhibit on the opposite side of the gym. He watches as the redhead walks up to it, looking up at the drawings hung up on the wall. Then he looks at everyone else in the gym, standing by their own exhibits. They all worked hard on their own art just like he did.

He's so used to staying within the bounds of familarity that he doesn't even know any of their faces, but he wants them to know his. Even he can acknowledge that that isn't fair.

He really is an attention seeker. And a pervert, and an impulsive psychopathic asshole with way more dark thoughts than he'd like to admit. And he's cool with all of that. That's the familiar stuff, the traits he's lived with for his entire life.

But he's also a teenager. And an artist. And _human_. And he can try to be those things, even if it's weird, or hard.

He's just gotta get out of his comfort zone.

Five minutes to cue, he calls out, "Hey, Marley!"

The redhead turns around. "Yeah?"

"Ditto."

At the sight of Butch's wide grin. Marley responds with a salute.

* * *

"Alright everyone, here we are! Welcome to Townsville High's first ever art showcase, courtesy of our very own Art class!"

It's literally only been twenty seconds since they started and he's already bored out of his mind. Miss Carlyle seems pretty excited from her spot on the podium, though. Her voice, magnified by the microphone in her hands, is probably the only thing keeping him from falling asleep on his feet.

"Every student of our art class has worked over the past couple of days to create their own artistic exhibits for the showcase. Feel free to wander and examine, and talk to the artists about their works!" she smiles brightly at the crowd. Butch notices that they all seem just as bored as he is, if not more. He hopes this isn't going to be a bust, for his teacher's sake.

He blinks suddenly.

Since when does he care about the feelings of a teacher?

"Keep in mind that no one will be permitted to leave the gym unless they have good reasons, and any form of fooling around will be dealt with accordingly. Nobody wants Saturday detention, right?" The very blatant threat in her voice is enough to make Butch smirk, and the low cacophonous groans of assent reassure him that the blonde knows what she's doing. She's Miss Carlyle, dammit; she managed to make someone like him cave, so he should way past underestimating her at this point.

Without further ado, let the showcase begin!" As soon as she sets the microphone down, upbeat pop music starts out of nowhere, catching Butch's attention. After a quick sweep of the gymnasium his supersight catches a glimpse of speakers hidden behind the bleachers at the far end of the large hall. He smirks a little.

Miss Carlyle probably figured that everyone would get bored of this really quickly, so she thought of music. And as he catches some students nodding their heads in time with the beat, all shreds of doubt of his art teacher's capabilities dissipate, leaving behind a sort of respect for the woman.

She's got this in the bag.

The silence among the crowd of students begins to fade into a babble of voices as students stand awkwardly in place. Butch wrinkles his nose; this is starting to feel a lot like the awkward dances of middle school. His gaze ricochets around the hall, taking in the nervous and/or mortified faces of his classmates. It hits him then.

These are all artists. Their art is precious to them, and the glaring inevitability of having a huge crowd of people scrutinizing them would probably be enough to send them into a string of heated panic attacks. Butch glances at his own exhibit; he drew most of these in a very wonky state of mind, and he can see some of his inner emotions bleeding out onto the pages for all to see. And he doesn't even want to think about the newest addition to his works.

If he wasn't so anxious to get drunk on the attention, he'd probably be petrified too. And with the number of unamused faces he's seeing in the Townsville High crowd, he's pretty sure that this thing is gonna fall flat if nothing happens within the next minute.

He glances at Miss Carlyle, who is standing a ways away from the podium. Her face is stoic, but he can make out just a hint of anxiety in her eyes. Just enough for him to know she's hoping hard for a breakthrough of some sort.

The negative feeling flickers to life in his chest. This can't go wrong. Not just for him, for the others, too. For his teacher.

Green eyes meet Marley's blue ones as Butch tries to come up with a plan. The joke about secret sex cults they shared just a few minutes ago is fresh in his mind, and in an instant he has an idea.

_Just go with the first thing that pops into your head_, he tells himself.

He takes a deep breath before he can second-guess himself, floats into the air, and zips to the podium in two seconds flat.

For a second, he just stares back at the numerous pairs of eyes that are now trained on him. He stalls. "U-um..."

_Well, fuck_, he thinks surprisedly. _I actually care about this shit._

"Uh-uhhhh...RECOMMENDATION!" he suddenly bellows into the mic, making everyone recoil as it screeches with feedback. He clears his throat awkwardly once the piercing sound has subsided, and points at a head of red hair. "Uh, I recommend Marley. Marley, raise your hand."

With a look of complete bewilderment the redhead obeys, lifting a lanky arm into the air and catching the attention of most of the crowd. Butch grins, and Marley raises an eyebrow in return.

"Now, if you like tits,"—he sees numerous teachers' eyebrows shoot up to their hairlines at this statement—"If you like looking at them, to be more precise, then Marley's your go-to guy. I mean, he's pretty good at life drawings in general, and he works with charcoal, which is a pretty good medium, but trust me. The tits are real. Go check out his exhibit."

When he looks back at the ginger, his lips are pulled in a wide grin, and Butch immediately decides that he likes the guy. He catches on quick. That, paired up with the fact at a number of people in the crowd are now staring unabashedly at Marley's exhibit, motivates Butch more.

"Now, Marley. It's your turn. _Recommendation_!"

"Uh... Suzie."

"Suzie, hand up!"

A hand from further back shoots into the air, and Butch feels himself getting hyped. "Marley, why'dya vote for Suzie?"

"Uh..." Ginger Boy stalls. "She...makes really good landscape drawings?"

The ravenette sneers. "Something juicy, Marley." his statement earns a few laughs from the crowd. "Try again."

"Well—she's got a thing for tattoo designs."

That gets a lot of people's attention. Butch nods. "Suzie, the tattoo artist! Recommendation!"

The tall, dark-haired girl doesn't hesitate. "I vote Kevin."

"Kevin, hand up! Suzie, why Kevin?"

"Easy. He draws anime."

Several heads turn in the direction of the tall blonde raising his hand.

"Gonna call ya Kishimoto from now on, Kevin," Butch grins. "Recommendation!"

"Butch."

He stalls at that. "Oh, uh, me. Cool." he raises his hand to keep the flow going. "Why me, Kishimoto?"

"'Cause you got deadass skills."

Butch feels his chest swell with pride, and he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

And then he pauses as he realizes he doesn't know any other names.

"Uh—" he curses himself internally as his eyes dart frantically across the hall, trying to put a name, any name, to someone in his class so he doesn't break the streak.

And then his eyes meet with Bubbles'. She sends him a reassuring smile, and his eyes widen.

"D-Deadass-Skill Butch recommends Gemma!" he blurts out, making a slim girl with dark brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses raise her hand slowly.

"Wh-why me though?" she asks him. He thinks about it for a moment, and then flashes her a smirk.

"Bubbles Utonium put in a good word for ya. And Bubbles Utonium does not lie, people!" he watches as Gemma suddenly smiles widely at him, eyes glimmering thankfully. He points at her. "Gemma, recommendation!"

"Rodney!" she calls instantly. "Because he draws bomb-ass women."

"Bomb-Ass-Women-Drawing Rodney! Recommendation!"

And so it goes, with each student recommending another student in a steady flow. Butch assigns nicknames to each of his classmates quick-fire, and with each nickname he dishes out, he feels the negative feeling ebb away bit by bit. As it vanishes, Butch notices something. He sees it in the way his classmates, who he didn't care to know before, look at him gratefully. With the compliment Kev-_Kishimoto_ gave him still fresh in his mind, the realization hits.

He's actually being genuinely nice.

At the last recommendation, Butch slaps his hands together. "So what the hell are you all waiting for?" he asks. "Go wild! _Go lookit them tiddies_!"

There's a loud chorus of laughter, and the crowd dissipates with more vigour than he expected. He smiles, hops off of the podium, slides effortlessly across the floor and heads in the direction of his exhibit. He twitches gleefully at the pretty steady number of schoolmates hovering around it.

"I suppose you're all wondering why I gathered you here today," he says overdramatically, smirking. At the sight of their stares of wonder (and he can see a bit of admiration there too), his inner attention-seeker does freaking backflips.

"I thought you only drew Buttercup," one of them asks. Butch's eye twitches at the blatant condescending tone. _Ah, a dickwad_. "What, you got a crush on Miss Carlyle now, too?"

Butch resists the urge to sneer, instead shrugging with a bored expression. "Honestly, that jab is so weird I can't even take offense, guy. But if you think I'm twisted enough to crush on my fucking teacher, then I think you deserve this."

"Deserve wha—ARGH!" the boy cuts off with a pained cry as Butch swings his foot forward, sinking the toe of his sneaker into the fucker's crotch. Said fucker bends over in pain, heaving and spitting curses.

"Hey!" Some teacher marches over, sending Butch a glare he blatantly ignores. "What is going on here?"

"Oh, nothing sir. This guy was _just leaving_." Butch stares down at his victim, the hard edge to his voice sending a clear message across.

"Y-yeah. Nothing to...w-worry about." the boy groans deeply and shuffles away, the irregularity of his gait eliciting a number of winces from the others standing at the exhibit. The tall teacher casts one more warning gaze at Butch before turning around and marching off in some other direction.

Butch takes a deep breath of satisfaction and walks in front of the crowd. It only takes a few seconds of silence for him to start shifting awkwardly. "Well, uh...I dunno anything about exhibits, so knock yourselves out, I guess." and then he gestures for them to move closer.

He watches idly as they stare and point, letting every statement aimed at him—except compliments, obviously—fade into the background.

Time sort of...slows down.

Butch discovers that he finds watching people look at his art strangely therapeutic. It's extremely weird (he's watching people. Blatantly.) but he can't deny that he feels strangely relaxed when he sees someone point at the drawing of his tree with a smile. And then slowly, his heart warms, and he realizes this isn't just the satisfaction of his attention-seeker.

It's the words he told Miss Carlyle yesterday coming true. People are acknowledging something he's good at.

His gaze shifts to Marley's exhibit again. He sees the ginger's face, flushed with embarrassment at the people crowded around his artwork, and Butch finally fully admits that the only people who could possibly feel as stoked as him right now are his classmates. The artists. They're all feeling the same amount of calm euphoria that he is.

Butch's body warms with the realization that Miss Carlyle was right. He's actually found his passion.

And then he groans into his hand, feeling his face flood with heat—_embarrassment heat_, not happiness heat. He feels so goddamn sappy right now he wants to keel over and die.

A loud shout of "Butch!" helps him regain his composure quickly, and he looks up to see Bubbles rushing over to him excitedly. "Oh my gosh that was so cool! It was awesome how you just kinda jumped in after you saw that no one really cared for the whole thing, and you got the ball rolling really quickly, and the whole recommendation thing was super fun to watch and it got a lot of people interested which was really great because I was getting worried that it would end up being—"

"_Whoa_." he cuts her off loudly, making sure to take a step back so she stops vigorously shaking him. "One sentence per breath, sweetheart."

She pauses. "Uh, once again, barf." And then she straightens, calming down so quickly Butch wonders if it she was the one who was standing here literally two seconds ago. "And sorry, I just got way too hyped."

"I'll say."

She punches his shoulder playfully. "Jerk," she chuckles. "... But, in a calmer voice now, I just wanted to say thanks for recommending Gemma. It was really sweet of you."

He snorts. "It wasn't as much sweet as it was me saying the first name that popped into my head."

"Well, thank you for remembering her name," she laughs. "It means a lot. Really."

He grins at her. "Whatever, ditz."

She makes a scandalized expression, hitting his shoulder with more force this time. "Hey! I am not a ditz, you piece of crap!"

"That's exactly what a ditz would say, though!"

She 'tch's and turns around. "Well, I'm going to be a good friend and go look at all of your art," she declares, walking off. "Seeya later, Romeo."

"... I didn't even get a goodbye kiss," he jokes with a pout.

She graciously flips him the bird, and he cackles, but he feels his chest warm again, for a different reason this time.

Bubbles called herself _his friend_, and it's making him feel a lot nicer than he expected it to. He actually looks down at his chest, the lingering positive emotion feeling a bit too foreign for him. It's not bad, though. It's just weird. Unfamiliar.

But then again, he's welcomed a lot of unfamiliar stuff today. What's one more?

He lets himself smile.

For some reason, the universe isn't satisfied with him seeing just one Powerpuff, because when he looks up, another one is heading his way. It's not the feral one, though, so he's not gonna complain.

Blossom walks up to him, smiling politely. But he can see a look in her eyes that usually precedes some kind of scolding remark.

"Harsh, what you did there." And there it is. "Poor guy won't be able to walk straight for the next couple of hours."

"Tch, I barely used any strength," he scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"You clearly underestimate your physical capabilities, Butch."

At that, he smirks impishly. "Physical capabilities, huh?" he questions, chuckling at how she makes a face. "Trust me, Blossom, you know nothing about my _physical prowess_. But I'd happily show you, if you'd like."

It's her turn to roll her eyes. "I'd rather spend detention with Brick," she retorts, and he chortles.

"You do realize that that's every T.V.H boy's wet dream, right? Even Brick's, though he'd rather off himself than mention it."

"Mhm," is all she says, and then she spins to face his exhibit. In any other situation, Butch would use this opportunity to drink in the redhead's extremely attractive body (like those damn legs), but today's different.

Today he actually cares about what she has to say about his work.

Her gaze shifts upward, settling on the huge painting suspended above the rest of his art. She tilts her head to the side.

"See something you like?" he questions, noticing the small smile gracing those pretty lips.

"It's really interesting," she says.

He wrinkles his nose. "'Interesting' is what you say when you don't know what else to call something."

She laughs. "I'm serious, Butch. It passes an interesting message," she says. "So it's interesting."

"A message?" he asks, and she nods. Thinking back on it now, he realizes that he didn't really think much about a meaning behind the painting he made. He just kinda... made it. Poured into it the frustration swirling around in his mind at the time. Now, as he looks up at the canvas, he tries to look at it in a new light, to find whatever message Blossom meant.

The painting is of him; his back, from his head to his waist. He's wearing his green letterman jacket and he's got his right arm raised, hand pressed up against the background, which is a wall made up of deep shades of depressing greys and blacks and blues. The lifeless colour seeps into his body too; his jacket's colour is dulled down, his dark brown curly hair looks almost black. Under his raised hand is a bright handprint made from neon green paint. The paint drips down the background wall, its hue a stark contrast to the dreariness of everything else.

As he looks at the painting, he finds himself almost mesmerized. It's like how he felt with his sketch of the city, but multiplied tenfold. For some reason, staring at the thing makes him feel a number of emotions at once; calmness, annoyance, confusion, and then a sudden sense of peace. Kinda like how he's felt for the entirety of this week.

He kinda gets what Blossom means. But even through the emotions, he can't derive a definite meaning.

So he shrugs. "I got nothing."

She stares at him, confused. "You...you don't have a meaning for your own painting?"

"Not all art has to have a fixed meaning," he retorts, folding his hands behind his head. "I'll just let everyone interpret it however they want. Never been one to impose ideas on people. Or things, for that matter; it just ain't my style."

She looks at me for a moment, and then turns back to the painting with a thoughtful expression. "I suppose... Everyone sees things differently, after all."

He tilts his head to the side. "... And what do you see?"

She pauses for a few seconds, as if weighing his question in her mind. Then she takes a slow, deep breath, and speaks.

"I see you trying to make a prominent mark, even though everything else is just faded background noise." she turns to look at him. "The handprint feels literal to me. It's paint, right?"

He only shrugs, motioning for her to go on.

"Well, I think the background represents how you see everything in general. Even yourself," she says, making him stiffen a bit. " It all feels dull to you. So if you're making a handprint with paint on it, then... You're making a mark...with your art."

He stares at her. Long enough for the silence to stretch out awkwardly. Eventually she shifts, fiddling with her hands under his intense stare.

"That's just what I think," she says quickly. "I read too deeply into things sometimes, heh." she laughs nervously.

"Nah, it's... It's cool," he finally speaks, snapping out of his stupor. "I just... That was just a pretty good analysis."

"... Oh." she nods, and then smiles a little. "Thanks. I guess I—"

"Yo!" Boomer's loud call cuts Blossom off abruptly, and they both turn to see his brothers heading swiftly towards his exhibit. Blossom's nose flares at the sight of Brick, and she promptly excuses herself.

"The fuck was that?" Butch hisses, sending the worst of his death glares at the blond idiot. "We were _talking_, you shithead."

"Sorry, _Butchie_," Boomer coos unapologetically. "But it's my mission to make sure that you don't get laid before I do. And this whole art thing is really upping your chances, so I had to step in. I saw how you were looking at Bubbles before," he says with an edge to his voice, making Butch scoff.

"You're still chasing Bubbles?" Brick asks boredly. "She wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole. You know that."

"She totally would! I-I mean—she totally would...touch me. With her hands."

"... And I've heard enough."

"Did you guys just come here to annoy me?" Butch asks dryly, and Brick rolls his eyes.

"We came here because there is nothing else to do but move from exhibit to exhibit," the redhead says. "Might as well shit on you as well as your art, since we can't leave."

"I'm _so_ honoured."

Without another word, Brick spins on his heel and turns all of his attention to the exhibit. A tiny flame of jealousy ignites in Butch's chest at the sight of most of the girls standing by the artworks turning their heads to stare unbashedly at the redhead.

Boomer whistles. "Well, I guess I shouldn't have worried," he comments, and then skillfully dodges the punch Butch aims at his head. "Whoa, calm down, dude!"

"Fuck you, Boomer."

"Ouch. After I came all the way to your exhibit to compliment you?" the blond clutches his chest overdramatically. "You wound me, big brother."

He slaps Boomer upside the head, making sure not to miss this time. Ignoring his little brother's wince, he says, "Are you going to actually look at the stuff I made, or are you just gonna stand here and let me kick the shit outta you?"

"Okay, okay," he chuckles, and then gestures outward. "Lead the way, Michelangelo."

Butch sneers, but moves forward anyway. After all, he'd rather have Boomer's attention centred on his art than on himself, since the little piece of shit prides himself in annoying him in any way possible.

He does realize, however, that Boomer would find something to tease him about from the exhibit as well. So, when Boomer catches sight of the sketch of Buttercup and turns to him with his lips stretched in the biggest shit-eating grin Butch has ever seen, he's already prepared to shoot the blond down before he can speak.

"Shut up."

He snorts loudly. "I-I didn't say anything yet—"

"Shut. Up."

"Okay..." he trails off into a bout of quiet snickering, and Butch mercilessly kicks him in the shin, making him choke. The blond's words from two nights ago ring in Butch's head; he can obviously tell what Boomer intended to say, and he hates it.

Why the hell does he think he's so fixated on Buttercup? And it's not just him, either; he's seen the stares people have been shooting at him since that first sketch he made of her, even after she crumpled (and probably destroyed) it. Everyone thinks he's so pussy-whipped—maybe even Buttercup does at this point. But he's _not_.

He barely even sees her as a girl, goddamnit. Hell would be an ice rink before he'd even think of actually _liking_ her. She just...happened to be within his range of vision whenever he was having an artistic crisis, and he responded to her presence the only way he knew how to at those points in time. That's why it aggravates him even more when people conclude that he likes her.

Lobbing him together with either one of her sisters would make more sense, honestly. Bubbles because they have this sort of friendship-cum-cameraderie thing going on now, and Blossom because...well, she's fucking _Blossom_.

But no.

He sighs and rubs at his eyes. "Ugh."

"What's wrong?" Boomer asks.

"... People are stupid. You included."

The blond grins. "I exist to annoy you, Butch. You should have realized that by now." He turns and reaches out to the sketch of Butch's tree, fingers ghosting along the paper. "But... I can also acknowledge the things that you're good at. Sibling code and all. And I gotta say that you're pretty awesome at drawing shit."

Butch chuckles softly. And then, "You're not getting the sketch I made of you, idiot."

At that, Boomer's face twists in mock-desperation. "Aw, c'mon! If it's of me, then I kinda deserve to have it, don't ya think? Like a reverse commission!"

"How the hell did you get to that conclusion?"

"Ah, so you don't disagree!"

"I'm disagreeing now."

"Aw, gimme a break, Butch!"

"No."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon blurs by, fading mostly into the background. Butch stands by his exhibit for most of the time, resting against the wall as the time ticks by. Eventually, even the compliments blend into white noise. He isn't bored; it's anything but that. He decides that he's just zoned-out after staying in one place for so long. He's not used to it, after all.

After Miss Carlyle announces that the showcase'll end in a couple of minutes, Butch begins to wander around the gym, his feet carrying him past the scattered clusters of students either talking or moving in time with the music. He doesn't really take note of where he's going until he almost bumps right into the girl he can now attach the name Gemma to. She's small and chubby, her face is flushed (probably from Compliment Syndrome), and her grey eyes look huge through her glasses.

She smiles nervously. "Oh. Uh, hi, Butch," she says. "Wh-what brings you here?"

He shrugs, responding with, "Bubbles Utonium doesn't lie."

She laughs at that. "Did...did she really talk about me that much?"

"Eh, she only mentioned you once," he says truthfully. "But she said enough. Enough for me to recommend you, at least." That isn't _entirely_ false; Bubbles did say her name, after all.

"Wow. She must've said some really good stuff, then."

He tilts his head to the side. "Why do you say that?"

She looks away and shifts, looking nervous again. "U-um, well... I've seen some of your art in class, and you're really awesome. So of course it means a lot for you to reccommend my art to the entire school." Suddenly she grins brightly; it's a stark contrast to her previously shy demeanor. "And Bubbles talks about you a lot too, and as you said, Bubbles Utonium doesn't lie."

He pauses, and then smirks deviously. "She talks about me, huh?" he asks, his voice low and dripping with an underlying meaning.

Gemma recoils, flailing her arms frantically and choking with laughter. "Ew! Ew, not like that, you weirdo!" she cries, making him laugh at her skittish reaction.

"I kid, I kid," he tells her. "But seriously...what does she say about me?"

"Well, she compliments your art, obviously," Gemma says. "But she also compliments your personality."

His eyebrows furrow in confusion. "My personality?" he questions, and she nods. What does Bubbles know about his personality?

"Yeah. She says that even though you seem pretty unapproachable on the surface, you're actually a really cool person when it comes to things you like or people you're comfortable with." His eyes widen a little at the words. "Only...you aren't comfortable with a lot of people, so..."

He knows Bubbles is basically the only person he talks to apart from his brothers, but for her to come to that conclusion is...weird, to say the least. And what makes it weird is the fact that she's right. He only ever really relaxes and talks about stuff he really cares about when he's comfortable with people. It all falls back to his dependence on familiarity; he's been slowly stepping more and more out of his comfort zone, but it's kinda jarring to have his whole personality so easily discerned like that. He figures that that's just Bubbles; she's a lot more observant than she lets on.

He feels like things are slowly changing now. It's not a sudden revolution, but he can feel it in the little things he's started doing. The way he talks more, and approaches people; he's standing right here with Gemma as proof.

He's getting more comfortable with things he's not familiar with—and it's not as bad as he thought.

And it's because of art. His newfound passion that made his life get a lot worse before it got better. But now it's better, and it's growing on him. This entire week of madness has calmed down, and even though the negative feeling is still present in his chest, it's overshadowed by a powerful warmth that still hasn't faded away. It's not his attention-seeker talking. It's not him just being an asshole, or a pervert.

It's him just...being himself.

And he's not willing to give this new side of himself up just yet.

He forgets that he's still staring at Gemma, until after a long minute of silence, she suddenly flinches and grimaces apologetically.

"Oh, I said way too much, I'm sorry—"

"No, it's okay," he cuts her off with a dismissive wave. "It's...it's cool, you just...you just made me realize something."

"...I did?"

"Heh. Yeah, you did."

They turn as Miss Carlyle's voice suddenly cuts through the air, amplified by the microphone. "Alright everyone, that's a wrap!" she calls out. "You may all leave the gym in an orderly manner. Art students, let's clear this place up."

They watch their fellow students file out of the gym, their cacophonous noise fading into low chatter as they bleed into the hallway outside and head off in different directions. Butch turns back to Gemma, and she flashes him her shy smile.

"Well, I should start packing up my stuff," he says to her, turning to walk away.

"Yeah, me too," she responds. "See you around, Butch."

He sends her his signature grin. "See you around, Gemma."

* * *

The canvas is a pain in the ass to carry. He's already having enough trouble with the smaller one—the painting of Miss Carlyle—wedged under his arm and the rest of his sketches rolled up and tucked into his jeans pocket. But this one is so huge that it blocks off ninety percent of his view, making him stumble every two feet because he literally can't see in front of him. He bumps into so many people on the corridors that he loses count of how many times he's had to mutter 'sorry' to some unseen face.

Why the fuck are there even still people in the corridors? It's almost six in the evening and the showcase ended by five-thirty. Plus, there's the fact that the art class just has to be upstairs, on the farthest end of the second floor, _on the other side of the fucking gym_. Bumping into people makes his job a hell of a lot more difficult.

Marley offered to help him; a lot of his classmates did actually, since he had the biggest canvas in the class. But he refused because he was so drunk on euphoria that the showcase was successful that he decided to be _freaking nice_, like he was for most of today.

He should have accepted. He should've shoved the damn thing right into Marley's able and willing hands because Butch knows, he freaking _knows_ that the universe hates every single snail that makes up his entire body and constantly finds every avenue to screw with him in the most aggravating way possible. And he's feeling pretty damn aggravated right now.

He resists the urge to growl as he bumps into yet another wandering idiot on his way to the stairs. "Sorry," he mumbles annoyedly, pushing past the person who has now stopped moving altogether for some reason.

"... Uh, Butch?"

He freezes.

_Oh, for the love of god_, he hisses mentally. _Of all the fucking people in Townsville High, it had to be you._

He ignores the voice and continues walking, holding back a sneer.

"Ah, hey!" A hand grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Wait."

He sighs and sets the gargantuan canvas down, turning around. His hard gaze meets a soft, green-eyed one.

"What do you want?" he deadpans. Buttercup lets go of his arm, taking a breath. And then she freezes, as if she hadn't expected their conversation to get this far.

"Uh..." she hesitates. "How was the showcase?"

He stares. "Well, you weren't there, so I figure you don't care."

She opens her mouth, and then shuts it again, her expression conflicted. If Butch wasn't in a bad mood already, he certainly is now.

"Look, we both don't have anything to say to each other, and I've got stuff to do," he says flatly. "So I'm gonna leave."

His gaze lingers on her for a second longer, and when she does nothing but stare at him, he shakes his head, hoists the canvas up again, and continues down the hallway. He scoffs at her poor attempt at conversation; what does she even want to talk about? He sure as hell has nothing to say to her. Not after she decimated the drawing he spent an entire afternoon on.

The bitterness lessens as he feels the weight of the canvas in his hands, though. At least through losing that drawing, he made a better one.

"M'sorry!" she suddenly shouts, making his stop again. This time he turns around due to pure disbelief.

Did...did Buttercup Utonium just freaking apologize to him?

As if to confirm that he heard right, she repeats herself, keeping her eyes down. "I...I'm sorry. I'm sorry for wrecking your drawing."

He stares at her in plain confusion. For a long while he says nothing, letting her apology properly hit home. And then, "Why?"

She looks up. "What?"

"Why?" he repeats. "Why are you sorry?"

She hesitates. "Because...'cause it was a shitty thing to do," she manages to speak. Her face scrunches up; he can practically taste how hard it is for her to swallow her pride right now. "I mean, it...it was an accident. I didn't mean to, but it was uncool...and you worked hard on it, so...yeah. I'm sorry."

"Who told you to do this?"

"What? No one did."

"Did Bubbles ask you to do it?"

"No, she—"

"Did she pay you to do it?"

"What? No!" she pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Nobody told me to apologize to you, alright? I just feel really bad and...ugh, fuck this. I tried." she spins on her heel and marches off in the opposite direction, her hands clenched into fists.

_Well, damn_, he thinks. _She actually means it._

He 'tch's and shouts, "Hey, Butterbutt!"

She stops, but doesn't turn. "What?"

"Why were you crying?"

She stops, her shoulders tensing up. "I told you it's none of your damn business," she spits after a while of silence.

"I know," he says. "You don't have to tell me what happened _exactly_. I just wanna know... What was so bad that it made someone like you cry?"

She scoffs. "You say that like I'm made outta stone or something."

"Well, until recently, I thought you were."

She turns to look at him. Her gaze is as hard as his was just a few moments before, but he can make out a bit of hesitation in her expression. She's figuring out the right thing to say, which means she actually wants to tell him. It's an extremely huge improvement from all their encounters this week. Normally, he'd be able to sense the mild hostility between them—recently it's been a lot less mild, actually. But right now, the tension is absent.

She heaves a sigh. One that sounds a lot like the way he sighed in his tree three days ago. It sounds tired and confused.

Conflicted, even.

Then she speaks. "There's just something I want to get away from," she murmurs softly. "Something I want to get over. But it's always hanging over me, trying to get me acknowledge its presence. But I just...can't." She looks up at him. "I _can't_ come to terms with it, and it's just making me feel worse the longer it refuses to just...disappear."

Her eyes show a vulnerability that Butch has never seen from her before. He can only tell what it is because he's been battling with a similar feeling for a while now. And he knows that she's talking about a completely different thing, that they aren't the same in almost any way, but he feels a sudden sense of cameraderie, by circumstance.

He never would've thought that he'd be able to understand the feelings of the person he's been fighting with for the past decade, but that's how life is.

So he takes a deep breath, and he tells her what he would've told himself at the beginning of this hectic week.

"Sometimes there are things that we just have to accept, no matter what," he says softly. "We have to realize that sooner or later. And sometimes, sooner is better."

Her eyes narrow at his somewhat philosophical response. "Tch. You don't fucking get it," she sneers.

"I _get it_ more than you know," he retorts, making her stall. He exhales slowly, rolling his eyes. The moment's gone, courtesy of Buttercup being Buttercup. "But whatever. It's cool that you apologized—but you still made this week way shittier than it needed to be for me." And then he smirks. "And I still hate you."

At that, she chuckles a little. "The feeling is mutual, asshole."

A thought pops into his head, and before he can change his mind he sets his canvas down and reaches for the rolled-up sketches in his pocket. Sifting through them quickly, he pulls out a particular one, folds it into a half-assed paper plane and throws it at her. "Catch," he says.

She does, and opens it. It takes a second for her to comprehend what she's seeing, and then her eyebrows furrow. "... When did you draw this?" she asks.

"Tuesday," he tells her. "I was feeling pretty crappy that day, too, since you kicked my ass that morning. And like I said, I don't have contol over what I draw sometimes, so you can do whatever you want with it as payback." He stuffs the drawings back into his pocket. "It's you, after all. Think of it as...a reverse commission."

"...Cool." she folds it in half neatly, and tucks it into her pocket. "I'll destroy it later. Y'know, spare you the trauma after yesterday."

"How thoughtful," he says sarcastically. He notices the hesitation in her expression, and decides to wait for her to speak.

"Y'know..." she begins. "You're pretty good at dr—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He hoists his canvas back up and turns around, resuming his walk towards the stairs without so much as a glance back back at her. "Welp, I'll see you around, Butterbitch."

"Don't call me that shit," she calls back after a moment of silence. And then he can hear her start walking in the opposite direction. "And...thanks, or whatever."

He blinks.

An apology and a 'thank you' from Buttercup, all in one day.

He chuckles as he makes it to the staircase. "Must've won the lottery or something," he mutters to himself as he begins his ascent.

By the time he's gone up five steps, he's mad again.

If this canvas was hard to move with when walking on flat ground, it's an absolute _bitch_ to manouvre up a flight of stairs. He grunts in annoyance as he tries his best to actually see the steps in front of him through the gigantic thing.

He almost falls twice. And then he has to power through another flight of stairs before he gets to the second floor. The only thing keeping him from blowing the painting to kingdom come right now is the fact that he spent hours making it, and it's his painting.

There aren't any people on this floor, thank god. He's willing to burn a couple of fuckers just to get to the art class at this point.

By the time he bursts through the door to the art studio, he's met not with peaceful silence, but the excited chatter of all of the other art students.

_Oh, right_, he thinks. _They all got here before me._

Serves him right for trying to be Mr McNiceguy.

"Yo, Butch!" He makes out a familiar head of red hair among the small crowd, right next to Tattoo-Artist Suzie and Bomb-Ass-Women-Drawing Rodney. "You finally made it!"

"Don't rub it in, Ginger Boy," he says flatly, sending him a weak glare.

"Why didn't you just fly, though?" Suzie asks, and Butch rolls his eyes.

"Because contrary to popular belief, flying actually requires me to _see where I'm going_," he deadpans, setting the bigger canvas down against the wall and placing the smaller one on its stand with the rest.

As soon as his hands are free, he's swarmed by a bunch of his classmates, startling him.

"Hey, you're all kinda suffocating me here!" he cries out, his voice coming out a lot more desperate than he intended.

"Oh, sorry," a voice says; he recognizes it as Kevin's—_Kishimoto's_. "It was just really cool, what you did! At the showcase, I mean."

"Yeah!" another voice pipes up. "You really did us a solid there, man!"

"And you got the ball rolling in a funny way, too."

"Yeah, the whole boob thing! That was pretty sweet. Got a lot of people flocking to Marley's exhibit _pretty quick_."

It takes him a while to accomodate the flurry of compliments he's getting slapped with from all directions, but eventually they start to hit home in his expression. And he realizes something else, too.

He can remember a lot of his classmates' faces, especially by their nicknames. There's Mukbang-Enthusiast Wes, Disney-Villainess Sue, Future-Alex-Hirsch Alex, Hot-Wheels Lisa, Wall-E Walter, Warrior-Empress Lulu, Weapon-Master Emmy—the list goes on. All of his classmates, with their names now permanently burned into memory.

Who are all currently praising him relentlessly.

Butch's face suddenly flushes bright red, and he hides it in his hands instinctively. "C-c'mon, it was just some weird idea," he mumbles. "Stop already! Before I explode..." He gets a chorus of laughter as a response.

"Alright, let up, guys," Kishimoto laughs. "Before we break him."

He heaves a shaky sigh as the mob backs up a few feet, allowing him to reorient himself. "Jesus, you're all worse than a mosh pit," he mutters.

"Seriously, though!" Marley pipes up. "If you didn't get up on that platform the whole thing woulda' probably just crashed and burned."

"... True," he says. As his confidence rushes back into his system, his lips stretch in his signature grin. "So now you all owe me for saving your asses."

"Ah, he's back," Marley says. "I already miss the Butch that's halfway to a giddysplosion."

"Quick! Everyone start stroking his ego again!" Suzie shouts.

"Wha—_hey_!"

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" Miss Carlyle's voice rings out over the class's laughs and shouts, catching everyone's attention. "Stop attacking Butch and listen up."

The blonde woman walks over to her table, a contented smile on her face. Butch catches the knowing look she sends him, and he rolls his eyes. She obviously lingered in the doorway long enough to hear the whole exchange. Though at this point, he can't really oppose her reactions. They're pretty fitting, given how he is now.

"I just wanted to congratulate all of you on a job well done," Miss Carlyle says, her eyes glistening. "Today was really successful, and I'm happy with all of the work you all put into your respective exhibits, and the showcase as a whole. I'm really proud of everyone here, and how hard you all worked for this."

She pauses, and the class uses the opportunity to erupt into excited cheers and high-fives, their voices rising again.

"_Also_," she bellows over the commotion, silencing them once again. She clears her throat. "Also, I hope this kicks off a tradition of some sorts. I hope that everything we've learned and tried for today's event becomes a part of us, and that this is the first of many memories—and showcases—that I hope this art class will share."

She laughs wetly, wiping her eyes, and Butch wants to sigh at the very obvious double meaning in her words that only he can understand. She's really trying, for someone who's only known him for a week.

But he can say the same thing about himself.

"Aww, don't go soft on us, Miss Carlyle!" Rodney jokes. "This is the perfect opportunity to start criticizing our work, am I right?"

"Lecture me on my speeches _after_ you learn how to draw men, Rodney," she retorts immediately, and the class bursts into laughter as Rodney holds his hands up in surrender.

"Low blow," he admits, nodding his head and taking the insult in good stride.

"Oh, and Butch?" the teacher calls, and he looks up. "I've been thinking over it, and I've decided that the art class's unofficial motto is now 'Go Lookit Them Tiddies'."

His eyes widen, and he snorts uncontrollably. But his laugh is nothing compared to the utter chaos that the class has descended into. Miss Carlyle grins, nodding smugly at the loud cackling and screaming that has taken over most of the students in the studio.

"W-wait, wait!" Marley manages to choke out once he catches his breath, gesturing for the others to calm down. "You said...you said 'unofficial'. Wh-what's the official one?"

"'Go Lookit Them Gender-Neutral Pectorals'," Butch says without thinking, and when everyone whips around to look at them, he shrugs. "For diversity."

All hell breaks loose.

As Butch watches his classmates keeling over with laughter, with a bunch of them crowded around him with their arms around his shoulders, he smiles. His gaze shifts to the art studio, to the paintings and drawings on the walls, to the canvases on their stands, to the paint supplies piled in the corner, to Miss Carlyle. And he feels himself finally, _finally_ come to terms with it all. He feels the last shadow of unfamiliarity that has been clouding his perception for the past week finally coil into nothingness.

For the past five days, his life's been crazy, because of art. Art's been stupid. It's been way too troublesome to handle. It's messed with his head. It's made the universe suddenly make him the most worthy victim of the worst bout of bad luck imaginable. If he didn't like it so much, he'd probably try to decimate this very art studio in a fit of rage.

But he does like it. He likes it a lot.

So it's okay.

And standing here, with a bunch of people who like him too—_actually like him_, as a person—he knows that he isn't going to give this up.

Nope. Not any time soon.

* * *

Cut to Monday morning. Right now, Butch is in school early on _Monday freaking morning._

But he chooses not to think about that. Instead, he thinks about what to say to Miss Keane when she walks into her office and finds him seated in front of her desk. He's thinking about it a bit too much, actually, because it's been a hot minute and she hasn't showed up yet, and his feet are tapping frantically against the floor and he's twitching like crazy and _she's still not here_ and maybe this wasn't the best idea, he should just leave and come back later, or tomorrow—

"Butch?" he stiffens at the sound of the her voice. Miss Keane walks briskly over to her seat at the table, looking at him carefully. "What are you doing here so early?"

He opens his mouth, and all but chokes. After all the overthinking he's done from the moment he woke up until now, he's suddenly at a loss for words. So he stares blankly at the principal and tries his best to not gawp like a fish out of water in front of her.

When an extremely awkward couple of seconds goes by, she narrows her eyes and sits down. "The discussion we're having about you and Buttercup's behaviour last week isn't until later," she says.

He knows this. She let him off the hook on Friday because of the showcase. "That isn't why I'm here," he manages to speak.

She tilts her head to the side. He watches as she pulls a folder out from her pocket space and opens it, skimming through the contents quickly. "Well, you don't have anything new on your record, other than the detention you ditched last Thursday, but we'll address that later," she says softly, flitting through the pages. It's when she's about halfway through that she pauses, and then looks up to stare at him carefully again. "Wait, is this about the art class?"

He nods slowly.

She huffs in mild exasperation, sitting up with her expression suddenly sympathetic. "Butch, if you still want to leave, I understand, but before you decide I just want to make sure that you—"

"Oh, I've already decided," he cuts in, stopping her from going off on a tangent. He catches sight of the desperate look in her eyes and grins despite himself. He reaches into his backpack and hands her his schedule. "I've decided...that I want to add a new subject to my class schedule."

She stares.

And stares.

And then she lets out a small "Oh."

"... Yeah."

"... _Oh_. Oh! You mean—"

"Uh-huh."

She suddenly lets out a huge sigh of relief as she places her hand on her chest. "Oh, wow... You got me pretty good there," she says breathlessly, making him laugh.

"I didn't say anything about leaving, though!"

"You didn't have to," she retorts, taking a deep breath to calm herself down. And then, slowly, a huge smile breaks out on her face. "I'm really glad you chose to take this, Butch. It's really good for you. I can tell."

He shrugs. "I guess I do give two shits about art class, after all."

She takes his schedule with a nod of acknowledgement. "I suppose you do."

He tries his best to sit still as he watches her print out his new schedule. She gives it a quick once-over before handing it over to him, her smile seeming wider somehow.

"During your trial run, you went for classes that weren't particularly in schedule, so there are a couple of changes, but nothing too major," she says as he takes it from her. "And with how jittery you look right now, I'm a bit glad that today's Monday."

He grins eagerly when he realizes what he has for first period. "Freaking A," he mutters to himself.

Miss Keane settles back down in her chair with a satisfied expression. "Now, if that's all, I'd like to start my day without a Jojo in my office," she says, pulling out a pile of paperwork out of nowhere.

"Right. Seeya, Miss Keane," he says, getting to his feet and rushing out of the door. He's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't catch the pleased grin she sends in his direction.

He blends into the hallway crowd fairly quickly, letting the wave of bodies carry him in the direction of his locker. The last of the weird looks have finally died off, and he basks in the feeling of familiarity. It's pretty sweet, but not as necessary as it used to be anymore.

When he gets to his locker, he finds Bubbles leaning against it. "Oh, hey!" she greets him with a smile.

"Aw, waiting on me in the morning now?" he drawls out teasingly. "I'm starting to think you're trying to force yourself on me, dear Bubbles."

"Dream on," she says, rolling her eyes. She thrusts something into his chest. "I just wanted to give you this."

He looks down at his history textbook, and then makes a look of mock-hurt. "Just the book? What about my kiss, sweetheart?"

She sighs. "You don't let up, do you?"

He grins. "Never."

She opens her mouth to retort, but her gaze lands on something behind him and she sends him a sweet smile instead. "As much as I'd love to slap some sense into that dirty-minded head of yours, I'm going to let you be, for your friend's sake."

"My friend?" he asks, confused. She simply points behind him and turns to leave. He turns around to see Marley waving at him from a couple of feet away. "Oh. That friend," he says.

"Hi," the redhead says with a grin.

"Hey, Ginger Boy," he responds. "To what do I owe the unwanted pleasure of our meeting?"

He rolls his eyes at Butch's words. "My locker's about five lockers away from yours, actually. You've just never noticed. So I figured I'd just say hi."

"I guess that checks out," Butch says with a shrug. "... So are you headed to the secret sex cult?"

"You mean art class? Yeah," he responds, walking ahead towards his locker. Butch follows idly, leaning to the side as Marley rummages through his stuff. "I'm just a little bummed out because I ran outta charcoal yesterday."

"Isn't there charcoal in the studio?" he asks.

"Nah, I offered to start buying some myself since I'm the only one in class who uses it. But I was too broke to buy some more before heading to school this morning." he reaches deeper in his locker, searching blindly. Then he sighs. "Don't have any in here, either."

"Too bad. Guess you'll have to use pencils today, like a normal person."

"Wait, what's wrong with charcoal?"

"It's grill kindling, Marley. You using it to draw just makes it grill kindling with a dream."

"Hm. You're just jealous 'cause you can't."

"Psh, I'm better than you with any medium, dumbass."

"Wanna bet?"

"_Absolutely_."

They head for the staircase together, teasing and bantering along the way. Butch clutches his new sketchbook to his chest as they head for the art class; it's empty for now, since he was all tuckered out for the weekend after the showcase, but he's already got a few budding ideas.

He'll have to handle Miss Carlyle first, though. She doesn't know he's chosen this class yet.

He kinda hopes she isn't in the studio yet. He wants some time to orient himself and set up before meeting the blonde-haired teacher.

When he walks into the studio with Marley, though, the first thing he notices is that she's bent over her desk, her attention completely focused on a sketch she's drawing. A few other people are in the class too; Lulu, Emmy and Alex wave at him in greeting, and he grins in response.

"Morning, Miss Carlyle," Marley says brightly, heading over to his seat—which is now placed at a much closer distance to Butch's.

"Oh, good morning, Marley. You're here early," she says, not looking up.

"Yeah. I headed out early to get some charcoal, but I'm totally broke," he tells her.

"Oh," she looks up suddenly. "You'll have to make do with pencils today, then. If I'd known earlier I would have gone to get some...myself..." she trails off as she catches sight of Butch.

"Um...hi," he says awkwardly.

She lets out a huge squeal and rushes over to him, sketch forgotten. She skids to a stop in front of him and reaches out, patting his face as if to really check that he's actually here. He laughs at the action.

"Don't make it weird," he chuckles.

"Too late," she says with a grin so wide it must be painful. And then she's suddenly serious, sending him a stare so intense that he goes rigid. "Wait, you mean this, right? You're not kidding?"

"I'm not."

"You...you realize that now you won't just draw whatever you please, right? You'll have to actually listen to what I say."

"Yup."

"And...you know you can't bail on any classes because I'll hunt you down?"

"Uh, what? I didn't know that—"

"And you'll get class excercises, and assignments, and projects and you'll have to work with the others and you'll—"

"Miss Carlyle," he cuts her off, placing a hand on her shoulder to calm her down. "I'm an art student now."

A grin bursts to life on her face again. "Oh! Oh, you really are!" she shouts excitedly, doing a weird victory dance. He chortles, nodding his head in affirmation. "Oh, my gosh, this is _great_! I-I need to celebrate! I need to treat the class! Uh, Marley!"

He sits up. "Yeah?"

"Stay right there! Class doesn't start for another twenty minutes so I'm going to go get you some charcoal, okay?"

The redhead's face lights up. "Oh, uh, cool! Thank you...?"

She swivels around, grabs her purse off of her table, sends another wide grin in Butch's direction, and promptly races out of the studio faster than anyone in the class can register.

"... Well, she's happy," Lulu says, taken aback by the teacher's sudden exit.

"You can say that again," Butch says. He heads over to his seat next to Marley, who is now smiling knowingly at him. "Oh, not you too."

"I didn't say anything!" he defends with a laugh. "I just figured you'd end up sticking with us for the long run. We artists tend to leave a pretty good lasting impression."

"Well, that explains why I'm so popular."

They both laugh as Butch settles his stuff down. His gaze shifts to his self-portrait, now hung up on the wall with the numerous other artwork made by his classmates and, possibly, the art students from past years as well. He sees them in a new light now; they've all got a certain vibe to them, making each of them—both literally and figuratively—works of art in their own right.

Marley follows his line of sight, and smiles. "I'm glad that it's there," he says, getting Butch's attention. "It's like...physical confirmation that you're here."

"... That's a little too deep, Marley."

He chuckles. "I'm serious, though. You're stuck with us now."

His gaze shifts to Marley's face, then to the faces of the others. To the people he can now call his friends. To the one place in his life he actually gives a shit about, with people he's actually comfortable with, and he feels the negative feeling disappear from his chest completely. Because now, art has wormed its way into his very being, wedging itself in a place that it probably won't move from for a long time.

He smiles. He can get used to this.

"Yeah. I guess I am."

* * *

And that's a wrap!

I actually can't believe this is actually finished, but it is and I'm freaking stoked! This has been one heck of a ride because this whole story took months to write and plan, and I'm my own beta reader so :'-D

Thanks to everyone who took the time to read this little brainchild of mine, whether you were silent or left a review. I love all your comments and they light up my days. I'm super happy that my very first properly edited and written fic (which is loosely based on me coming to terms with art as my passion) has such a positive reception, so thanks y'all!

Also, I know some things might have seemed a little too convenient, but eh. Let's let Butch have this ending.

So, uh, yeah. Until the next fic (which could be any time, really), seeya!


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